datwletw rah an aterel bb 
nseheratrisdeietshotese bsetate 
ieiabehavohad ated coment tits 
















at 
afhatiaiadat aiietbaliai-adaibefelh te ait 
phair rune ner erhon 
ahaeh ahahatfehaiindahsdaishehebriahs 4 
cacvennastadatiehatiada hated aisbeteyaiiatalr} 
Meee stetarahanshehabansieranenal ania lad) atl 
MoH bcareririnprrcemetitteh Mo 
2 pipatatiate! Halls!) 
i iahenon alt uethede abel ash he bernie} 
tralpetieii sibettei etal afivh elt alhainaltatah 





alia wihes afb ah oiha’ hao oth attarat wl of 
dabristaembolioiphanetelfed cpaiadenahelabehehatabel ebonataiede}¥bet ali woah aad 
Ire aetanrtabanaaindannirineetatoles Mth NU tpapenate 4) Sv adalen at banal ‘ 
varlenteerteren siti rat tees durentternpehas i cthrcusa etn azn tar eisive rah = 
” ne altel . ale . a) * a . ‘ 
ehah : a toball attelt ow oli (fs {i oaeoth otal alle a bathe TF abetoheletaiaiahejats! olbe fete aha 
“et a rot pe oiue reed HA riahanartengha tak ene ct i bad ter: af) aj abaihateitatiah abet ae aie 
ahaa ah atten th abate Gocbuiiey Eat tr aeareaionriencbesd tel richai ha deec\ care cahebetaveiighnbnphadateietsee ty tabats aba 
ceiedehaneieiapebarntsierern!: Meee tesaiteliadafaliel abnipetat imita} shally a f i ahaiabn tahavenaiebsttel sbelta ot pine pruners ure jatpale 
seh Beeritiabtiritanenbehgvntn ricihoiasaet Detat th opeegnhsbhat sen woanel Mi eiedaketebadadellebndatabae aha iene henasanat 
Pslegenwpelovanshonatellee sts ate" wihhanrbirabtan tt ass taair naa ara tista ea ainsi thet fH ola 
jrbsarinabebebeiphai adeiatol srry haihohahagababaiaitatat te dicyadeietebel abana Mele ea snate ahaijehen adi ob anal 
ate atte! rl eheustetsinbchndabok hatebabettelelaneh elite shal ath haioivatattotrontabradieirad nt afabefoh seid aianitaite! 
jehabaliatehali alah aoeuae vaoestad ebadoh ayenetonntoashabshate ly faker 
afb stpotroi Oni oH aihetabehaitabed, urbe 


pared hr te eee aketacebabeialiohuhedetolvtet etabeiniat ee, 
pha b ah ; oh obs) afpet intel trek ret prhetsdebebntchanobebeh hate eiaredss puuerin Hrurshies 
) af otbat) aitalea a a head apael jade’ 
: sjehapahagabal{ aha attallatat 


| Hudet rune weer 0 afpraaite ts 
Eee ethene iste dudased Se ee rtaegebed obek iotesnaneneniatisiaiaetaes, 
ererey ca) otywhate halyeh ‘sdathey of aio’ witobas aipall ob acest eltathe pace hatraanatiatind ott abate 
satginmvrtitict peta tnd ied shesebeteiate ate bet Se apoteliniehett : aver saipati sapatiabaitaie' 
4 aga batecet rivet Lealbrithestnarsl Wr MMS er pcoaraterett Sra nu alt rar iiebinieneictghtsih 2 
a H shaliwhalbateta shh Srararerynbr te by by ! 


" 
e 


4 ies ow roraeareert oh oqadarte’ ‘sdanataiiel ate itetreh al 

’ " Os = atakele 4 

pave osbuele iat epetsieaturianniolot ft i ethchebeleiababeted peistaiebets i 
vicerstabshaishanersietanatelets tet seeatrntetetrneete tether jesebahgne teh taned 
rid alnenaijat ry) a hehahes sbohasnindetebaistel giataioiay pire otha dette! Meee siaheesege pen Haida hahatiel i 
4 ah A eishstesatedetotniesnyetet he slheie iad abel wiatalies ote” Ma hachcepepeare ere , , 
pate spieaetyanie aetna esppae er icin stieaishensicishe cet ier ry piv kre i 

prab r an igalrali Aeejabahes atuobeintte im tpatra thal ahehalrel alpanathah od sipola' shai) x\)aal}s badapiab aieisa het afin sie! 
venkat deiah ine einiaiaa Hahatalebajeh ovoia teste ea hedetyrapnyctnret seigiciolhebtet ott 









Renta death -tboth eth Paibatisd a ; 
“a banhrisirbabtet tite aasineniehensope tesa! 4 awh olbetbeti 
ieee erent a 








arian Mai iehohalatehaneiannleat ate 
; MH haste 
rahe tela Lobedojste) atiegodahwiatvales fein HM ae ci rboiniel seared 
Seipehabohwiiohe( aihvhebabsiiairds! Aaj atiohe’ 
sadpe bene nd eeuh abode owt utha ajar botbob: siisbotenppwcepanatenerene 
air aint osha ato efivtrat SN urares’ ; ahahobetane baltahan 
pohon rhev abel ede) wheehes a geprenchenahel ’ i bot ga ferret yo ft 
ois ie patadsbobaiabalheienade saucy aioe pahohat odoin datsirellshe 
} stro d aiprinnd a6 of parle bajravel™ ibe ol iejehepabohetatetatahenodohebeter oaoealle 
aa gar see faljon wha dahetetats Avi) fled a duilanerail patterns wares 
paiaboree ot lip aihe) gnats pa lt et ; bahodalatatelaratanyeteonanieneeat toate é 
nidet) tye aired wip fl otrotian Wvataade' sehanabapalebajaierat jabedoadonglavaisieteieteite 
mor pean eared ve bd rabies pabare are triessecner 
L LZ 
seheltchahitat titan ttersicaneniainis habehshehahetatneitese Leta eastehabenaiel 
: ip otbvtatebijaitenlisiratpaitellwipais alba satin bah a polio ihe hhehedelisibettei) abet abe tate tae 
ieietecchobegri stat strbpensbedsbsoavs tere : ehaiokes ottelaheaadelelstetsialata te: all oipotiotes paiiatien 
Lirtieteochehsnoderovaitetnhe aha alata! seanadnha'iah aed witeibaibertatie ad acreihaieyepaitetehetatia 
satbeter sljadonabat ite tia eh rhahaireijonenetababerzite badeile) alae tate at etalon ap eateltetieyaieaitaiaiie 
shad ahohehs bala eboieiaialiaiiese at hath od wh adh aioibuija trate’ ipa iad ahohoiin pele ened abated aia afta 
Gia tbath op-06 a hbcwl abel vty pus athe ye fy Meee iekeseputehstsinenetsintessiatelenets aj ated ohehod 
nessa beta itt ata it nenepadehton risitshpieaneeteteltion dt teotetteagharteintaiaehohetat 
, sepia intelatasbatcboasbenehbnspeeentae 
en 


gored 
ja patehabuiminlt ade eit ied atoll wradmiatatt 
doe Batbaiva iw afyed ote hanttedd jeer pabadahodet el 
rep chasshated pbegehe denktrnhl cbc hea cet rahne ee " 
oe" e 
sieie) whatete late a rereeederaievevenenegenes 


one} a' 
isfabaoa Pe Nisan comrantrenieyeety net 
Nh aleebe | joka ed tathmara L 2 
Kedbgrardasepenei sete Men tt tL fount secrets prtitt ‘Pieteahedsyalasesehotet) 
sneha jaiveiiahahaivietaiianetairerel) Haiesetehaereraiter etal Metsaebratensich sete opis siplprpattet aia inevolhal)s 
as tat sirepaloiaye Jahedajaliatehatee iaeniabelat als ahapanape abate’ iyaiyosadagemel sdalteiadedeiaied at 
bacco entutoenhearantatetreaeti gas hstieteseigaentgie 
[ CI " } : \ 
re ie Spe panatehaliaiateie® be patta® av iat sretiaeletenetenershe! ne 
tof ot! ’ a5 eae dayeled 


* 
sr inisescrae en ttaraetueasinsrenia treat ttt 
7 ahelerele toljwiase! 7 pau! o ae . 
rohnert ty leah eeiadeie® oe Rebchabotah sheheneneneieieeshy ones haben eaesyl al ‘ 
heat wipe 0 of!) cole tatebels|adetebanetoreped ath oie ivan wate voipetal otwhod apart!) wha altohante eres 
‘ dat opeian abatignalta iets: yovadehahaeneretl ft ie jo 

ob ahedelobehecenodsierr iets poiaganesel aie taty sheheiaseten 

site preys seo 


ebaacsem penance 
q anaes E 

raree irr mam ee a (jolted aban alirye 

Seagheiahvgbeie) eer kete I Se rlehrinaseh iret tetas ererabopere ohmarmremerentnr tot teeta any 
; ’ b 4 fT " esas a 
peruet ate ischeainterel urge teaetahtetcntgin i 


otebete 
4 ‘ ) hs 
Sinsnoenethnenbonhteert tne acter rada te 
Holes shatahalrahets sibebe! Tota ratuieliptelenaietytenaletet arele pais unis qe lbere’ 
setalnhabebetahelalpneastinssetasenehetbton ste ett tiitercraeteteteantebete neiiaiepe tebe 
eeaaesvesenpenonetet tet ebatatetele a vanrbehetstots rch hacesriepe maube se 
et * i , 
; piichanvenaee mou bitatt Sipinpreneesgoo a 9 igiedghnheh 

























Waite haliabelaieliatets 
ahwtehatalte hh 
Aalpsttahon et 
shwretigteliete jan ubolvad abel atare ‘ . 
esariaheipa bors pala iialfaiersaialin allt #9 ioonvmneyeteiatat 
avstad opatrate' a joha per austere aka heieliaiaiedelivhe 
epes seve unne pipe i P ional ab ebebartsipabege teil” Od saielepanoberanaie 
a9 waa thone pap oeaiele pebaiatet iid af aigelelohode ehadat whateralt aly syeipoperatats iad 
qe taheteleiaheboh tate vayayaletene svsbeh pigiens® 
wih (i chaliedaiiabedataneladeted ot 
alahadahered 


jonahabepalnbadsielaneierel ofeile: Hota ened 
prajohaiudghedabare tape liviehe 
jeep ejepalaetolrieienaret 
aha setanaipaiaieparereielrel 














potpadeita ie! 4 alpate’, 

us rorpene he fer Ft eescajovaraverersbeiet ' 

afegaiiobale fa! ehahaiabaleneheiaieterebalelt 

idee inetecgehceiee staat carta 
iehilcepnaemiaciannc aca Piacente 













Fevapal i 

rebar urirt apetotejolane * 
er" jas be y 
att patente (patedel opostutte! 4) ji airatadaiatiens| re aihalbatteh olhat sipa ‘ahaijviiabetreirebesatert L 
nv isbat tat cataeichebesheted bets iniabopeteiniayeveiatal tee at tee a tohaintebehehs Le a ee eashtickchopedsvemnnetenonenetarttale 
site iabetie® aihalio toipa paspaudra betaiber a! vijal Pabertetroiiallel Tee lalml sled ehatatadaliqiadelaieatsl ponehebahai stele all 
pater sret ae akahcnstereabe ieheovehehionevenenedaiets ls is Asma at si eli eiatheiiot eipaia tay (at ivathenatohahetell 
ate haben: sate peinjaneraiejaustesel obnietbetesialletit Mpvaerarprert! piers peu lubshabeistadattevenetease nel sredee: crrdrursrenyr 
i x i bs ehtid ar 

rarer rodehegciteteeie tee taTeaiereasbeitebel aha tuot esamta 


joe bohedainiehetenensratonatel ole pe 
ff rishahalstaieistaedediobetadnteiabeieraters 
sonedanaisitabaiieiedalarriiedehelianells serehoneienehabopaneronevenelt)s tejebadesanehohepaianwllay a henadare ‘ 
oot wiped «iter a irwitay wie? jinpeobaiaipa taal dobelet ot cpherepenenatenelvver evetatedeetaleyeten og alheen ata wiehah aie! 
ehaiagieiats tereleiele mh attapaiialiwialt > nhebche neta aphepereisiernbstesenelthersciaetntnat Reh a ar) wt othe: haan nk mooie babel pied jive 
or Hevahehoeb tae titalsteasateteterederntassiahet tess hetatehaahone doballetedahaiiared site jel prdipkaiarsb petit 4 elehel ehelialiwial alee 
jaiejabaiaiedelapaianiyiehste! aia ce rejesencoeinnenstasebeinnmhebedeyalet teeny ae b ve 
pihatyalnntiarbentiatha’polbane fea nafs jedagalpojoralla® hel aiielafaralbeheberelar® aiepapedohenohs ianeuene ‘ 
pa jened alo! gang atietn tell shedatel ven ell otha sivathapaliaied oGepal dewqereter sigiatabajavaiareiat shoberatsiteie 
daietelatol int thee tl etenetes aba ialbeipelinipotraitatety L wipatiafiagetrabelt aihelbslistanedabate’e eben sts 
pel gieh ater johohaiehahepelieiei ets inheiaialiaiel ielleratieie(pel mover mee boners pb arerured 
jwvmbe nh shetae sheet aes abevaie tebe jolebabalat ses ahaley aihaiaselmeataienaiell tt! iyadin feet atholfaiya palate 
‘ob alvhabebaiadeiagebesstellsbeiate ed ada ai) wrehaheienel sbenodselopainisisis! otaliaiell aban athaitapae) 
hada! ‘epaahetertad isint ant ee eas anebonensievanedehetemenalereelrcsos ai 
noneiers ebotehaossleneeyt fenenetengis Tease et i whwia eka 
“ 


detiapatohal aheiete 
2 shenehe yy. 


















































THE FIGHT BETWEEN THE BONHOMME RICHARD AND 
THE SERAPIS 


RICHARD CARVEL 


BY 


WINSTON CHURCHILL 


EDITED BY 


Hy. Gy*PAUL 


PROFESSOR OF THE TEACHING OF ENGLISH 
UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 


New Bork 
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
(3g 
1923 


EDITOR’S PREFACE 


GRADUALLY teachers of English are coming to realize that 
all good authors are not necessarily like the supposedly good 
Indians, to be found only among the dead. While it would, of 
course, be foolish to offer to pupils nothing but the works of 
contemporary writers and to neglect our heritage of one of 
the greatest literatures the world has ever known, surely 
it is also a mistake to give our classes the impression that 
good literature died in 1892 along with Tennyson. Doubtless 
by far the largest share of our study should be devoted to 
these older books, but this should not be to the exclusion of 
the best of contemporary writings. 

The notes and questions here included are intended to 
stimulate thought on the part of the student and not to prove 
a substitute for it. Doubtless the teacher can and should 
devise many questions better suited to the particular needs 
of the class than those here provided. It is hoped, however, 
that the questions and notes here included will prove helpful 
to the pupils in gaining an increased appreciation of this 
story and of the story-teller’s art, 


CHAPTER 


I 

iy 

rT. 
IV. 

No 

VI, 
VII. 
VIII. 
IX. 

X. 

68 
XII. 
XIII. 
XIV. 
XV. 
XVI. 
XVII. 
XVIII. 
XIX. 
XX. 
XXI. 
XXII. 
XXIII. 
XXIV. 
XXV. 
XXVI. 
XXVII. 


CONTENTS 


Lionel Carvel, of Carvel Hall 
Some Memories of Childhood 
Caught by the Tide . : 

Grafton would heal an Old Rreach®, 
“Tf Ladies be but Young and Fair” 
I first suffer for the Cause 
Grafton has his Chance . 

Over the Wall . ; 

Under False Colours . 

The Red in the Carvel Blood 

A Festival and a Parting 

News from a Far Country 

Mr. Allen shows his Hand 

The Volte Coupe. . 

Of which the Rector has tie Wo orst 


In which Some Things are made Clear 


South River. 

The Black Moll 

A Man of Destiny 

A Sad Home-coming . 
The Gardener’s Cottage . 
On the Road 

London Town . 

Castle Yard 

The Rescue 

The Part Horatio Ae 
In which I am sore tempted. 


Xl 


Pace 


16 
oH | 
42 
Dib 
62 
71 
79 
93 
105 
118 
127 
138 
146 
156 
161 
167 
177 
188 
199 
205 
23.9 
2o1 
238 
249 
258 


Xil 


CHAPTER 


XXVIII. 
XXIX, 
XXX, 
XXXI: 
XXXII. 
XXXII. 
XXXIV. 
XXXY. 
XXXVI. 
XXXVI. 
XXXVITI. 
XXXIX. 
XL. 
XLI. 
XLT 
XLT. 
XLIV. 
XLV. 
XLVI. 
si Vo 
XLVIITI. 
XLIX. 
bs 

LL 

EM: 
LITT: 
LANs 

LV: 

LVI. 
LVII. 


CONTENTS 


Arlington Street 

I meet a very Great Young Man 

A Conspiracy . 
“Upstairs into the W OHA! feat 

Lady Tankervilie’s Drum-maior 

Drury Lane ‘ 

His Grace makes Advice : 
In which my Lord Baltimore appears . 
A Glimpse of Mr. Garrick 

The Serpentine iy 
In which I am puny bhought | to task 
Holland House 

Vauxhall 

The Wilderness 

My Friends are proven 

Annapolis once more . 

Noblesse Oblige ae 

The House of Memories . 

Gordon’s Pride 

Visitors 

Multum in Parvo . 

Liberty loses a Friend 

Farewell to Gordon’s . ; 
How an Idle Prophecy came to pass 
How the Gardener’s Son fought the Serapts 
In which I make Some Discoveries 
More Discoveries . 

“The Love of a Maid fats a Man” 

How Good came out of Evil 

I come to my Own again 92.) 


PAGE 
269 
276 
285 
296 
310 
320 
330 
336 
345 
353 
364 
373 
383 
391 
400 
406 
415 
424 
433 
438 
449 
459 
468 
474. 
487 
502 
512 
524 
533 


THE AUTHOR OF RICHARD CARVEL 


THE years immediately following the close of our Civil 
War witnessed many-remarkable and rapid changes in the 
city of St. Louis. The steamboats which had thronged the 
Mississippi and had pushed and shoved their prows into the 
closely packed quarters along the levee gradually gave way 
before their less picturesque! but more rapid competitors, the 
railway trains. Shops and stores crowded back the residence 
district; and on the sites of old, substantial homes rose great 
factories and foundries which showered smoke and soot over 
the neighborhood and drove the residents back from one ridge 
to the next, farther and farther from the river, till the long, 
quiet country roads were transformed into city streets. Up 
these ridges a third horse helped the team which pulled each 
slow-moving street car. In these cars might be heard the 
sharp, nasal tones of the Yankee and the soft, drawling speech 
of the Southerner, for in this city met and mingled the two 
great currents of national emigration, much as the waters of 
the two wonderful rivers mingle at its side. 

Such was St. Louis, the metropolis of the Mississippi valley 
during the presidency of Ulysses S. Grant, where Winston 
Churchill was born on November to, 1871. vy ke a is little to 
record of the youth of this quiet, strong-willed boy except 
that the death of his parents left him to the care of an aunt 
and uncle, and that he came to know his native city intimately 
and stored up much of its life and history of which he was later 
to make such good use. From the public schools and Smith 
Academy in St. Louis he passed to the United States Naval 
Academy at Annapolis. Here, as a tall, broad-shouldered 
cadet, he was especially fond of rowing, and by his enthusiasm 
did much to revive the interest of his fellows in that sport. 


xiil 


xiv THE AUTHOR OF RICHARD CARVEL 


After his graduation in 1894, the call of the sea proved less 
enticing than did the lure of journalism. Consequently he 
became the editor of the 4rmy and Navy Journal and was 
then drawn into that greatest center of American publications, 
New York City. Here he served a short apprenticeship as a 
magazine writer and was chosen managing editor of the 
Cosmopolitan. In 1895 he was married to Miss Mabel Har- 
lakenden Hall of St. Louis, gave up his editorship, and re- 
- turned to his native city, where he finished his first novel, 
Richard Carvel. The success of this story, on its appearance 
in 1899, was instantaneous. Edition followed edition rapidly; 
soon the story was dramatized, John Drew taking the leading 

art. 

A little later, the Churchills purchased at Cornish, New 
Hampshire, a farm of about two hundred acres. There on the 
edge of the broad, shallow Connecticut River, with Vermont 
on the opposite bank, they built a large, low, brick, colonial 
house, quite in keeping with the type of the better homes of 
Annapolis in the days when the flag of George III was re- 
placed by that of George Washington. Soon politics as well 
as authorship claimed a share of Mr. Churchill’s time and 
energy. In 1903 and again in 1905 he represented the Cornish 
district in the New Hampshire legislature; and in 1912, as 
the candidate of the Progressive Party for governor, he made 
a splendid fight against corporation control in politics. 

Since the appearance of Richard Carvel in 1899, he has 
worked steadily and faithfully as an author of fiction, sparing 
neither pains nor labor in preparing his materials, writing and 
rewriting with infinite care, and quite content to spend two 
or three years in perfecting each of the eight other novels he 
has since produced: The Crisis, 1901; The Crossing, 1904; 
Coniston, 1906; Mr. Crewe’s Career, 1908; 4 Modern Chron- 
icle, 1910; The Inside of the Cup, 1913; A Far Country, 1915; 
The Dwelling Place of Light, 1917. St. Louis, his native city, 
often appears as the scene of his stories, avowedly and 
picturesquely as in The Crisis and A Modern Chronicle, or by 
implication as in The Inside of the Cup; while his experiences 


THE AUTHOR OF RICHARD CARVEL xv 


in New Hampshire politics have added a very personal 
interest to Coniston and Mr. Crewe’s Career. 

His methods of writing offer some very interesting re- 
minders of those of Sir Walter Scott: he has shown himself 
capable of an almost incredible amount of hard work; he 
likes to break the backbone of the day’s task with a long 
stretch of toil during the morning hours; and, finally, he 
delights in galloping away from his task on a clean limbed, 
well groomed horse, riding it with an ease and skill which 
would have quite won the heart of the “ Wizard of the North.” 












yaa sh 

baa % 
bs 

eos 






THE WRITING OF RICHARD CARVEL 


STYLES come and flourish in the writing of novels just as 
truly, if not so rapidly, as they appear in modes of dressing 
the hair or of fashioning sleeves and skirts and shoes. Thus, 
during the years when the nineteenth century was old and the 
twentieth century was new, the historical novel was. the 
prevailing favorite in the realms of fiction. To this popularity 
Mr. Churchill’s earlier stories contributed much and were in 
turn affected by it. 

It is not surprising that the cadet from the Middle West 
should have been attracted by the “atmosphere of the 
eighteenth century which was preserved in Annapolis.” 
The very names of its quaint streets—Prince George, Duke of 
Marlborough, Duke of Gloucester—tell of the days when 
the colonial capital gloried in its loyalty to the British 
crown. Soon his imagination began to people its spacious 
old red brick houses with the be-wigged men and the broad- 
skirted women who had been born and lived, loved, quar- 
relled, and died in the low-roofed rooms, trimmed in mahogany 
and white and lighted by the small-paned windows. Gradual- 
ly he shaped a story of these days of our forefathers, present- 
ing the old Chase mansion as the home of his heroine and 
another, now called Carvel Hall, as the city home of the hero’s 
grandfather. 

Once entered upon his task, Mr. Churchill went about it 
with characteristic care and thoroughness. He tells us how 
he “visited all the places concerned in the story, and read 
biographies, histories, memoirs, letters, old newspapers—in 
fact everything which could give insight into the life of those 
days, or into the character of the people like John Paul 
Jones or Charles Fox whom he desired to introduce—he took 


XVil 


xviii THE WRITING OF RICHARD CARVEL 


voluminous notes: on costumes in one volume, manners and 
customs in another, history in another, and so on.” 

Perhaps we may be helped in forming some conception of 
the manner in which Mr. Churchill has transformed these 
raw materials into the finer fabric of romance by noticing a 
few passages from that historian of Annapolis, Elihu Riley, 
to whom he frankly confesses his indebtedness: 

“Lumbering equipages . generally drawn by splendid 
horses, bore the colonists about the country, while in the city 
the sedan chair, carried by lackeys in rich livery, was the 
luxurious car of the queens of the house. These favored 
people sat on carved chairs at curious tables, ‘amid piles of 
ancestral silverware, and drank punch out of vast, costly 
bowls of Japan, or sipped Madeira a half century Ota: AN 
while the employment of a French hairdresser, by one lady, 
at a thousand crowns a year, was a suggestion of the luxury 
and wealth which made Annapolis the home of a gay and 
haughty circle of aristocrats. . . . Commerce flourished, its 
merchants imported goods in ships from every sea, and its 
enterprising citizens made efforts to induce men of all crafts 
to come and settle in their midst.” Practically every detail in 
the passage just given finds a place somewhere in the narra- 
tive of Richard Carvel, but quickened into life, vitalized and. 
clear to our eyes in the drama which we are called to watch. 

Of especial interest is the following glimpse which Mr. 
Churchill has given us into his workshop 

“Not until I was more than half way through the work 
did it occur to me to introduce John Paul Jones. I had al- 
ready used the name Carvel in the manuscript, and I found 
on looking over the roster of the Bon Homme Richard that 
an officer by that name was mentioned. ‘This was merely an 
interesting coincidence.” 

Since Richard Carvel was written, it may be noted, the re- 
mains of John Paul Jones, this father of the American navy, 
have found a final resting place in the quaint, historic Mary- 
land capital around which centers this story of the days when 
he fought to help establish our nation. 


THE WRITING OF RICHARD CARVEL xix 


His name suggests one problem in the construction of this 
romance which offered its special difficulties, difficulties which 
are inherent in the nature of the historical novel. Richard 
Carvel and Dorothy Manners, Comyn and Chartersea, 
Grafton Carvel and the Reverend Mr. Allen are the children 
of Mr. Churchill’s own fancy. As long as he keeps fairly close 
to probability, we allow him to shape as he wills the careers 
of these creations. But Washington and John Paul Jones, 
Walpole and Charles James Fox belong primarily to history. 
Whenever the author introduces such characters as these, 
though he may be allowed considerable freedom in devising 
minor events, he must represent these personages in accord 
with truth to their historic selves. This Mr. Churchill has 
done with a fine, sympathetic, painstaking fidelity. Thus, 
though in the last few years we have learned a little more of 
the life and character of John Paul Jones, one of the truest 
and best pictures of him is Mr. Churchill’s portrait of the 
moment when he said, “I have not yet begun to fight.” 





SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDY 


THE experienced traveler, on visiting a strange city, tries, 
if possible, first to get a bird’s-eye view of it from some such 
height as a church tower or the roof of some tall building, for 
he realizes the value of thus gaining his bearings and of rap- 
idly acquainting himself with those chief features which he 
will soon come to know in detail. Somewhat similarly, before 
taking up the careful study of a novel, the student will do 
well to go through it rapidly, endeavoring to grasp the story 
as a whole, reading as Dr. Johnson used to read “‘to get the 
heart out of the book.”” When this has been done, the class 
may well spend a period in making sure that each student has 
mastered these chief points, in clearing up any, of the larger 
~ matters of the story which may have been misunderstood, 
in becoming familiar with the names of the chief characters, 
and in placing these characters correctly in the story. 

One simple yet effective device in reviewing and clinching 
the story is to study the Table of Contents, seeing what each 
title suggests, and then returning for a brief re-reading to 
such chapters as may not be clearly recalled by this study of 
the titles. 

The story itself naturally falls into the following divisions: 


Chapters I-V 

Chapters VI-XIIT 
Chapters XIII-XVII 
Chapters XVIII-XXII 
Chapters XXIII-XXXI 
Chapters XX XII-XLII 
Chapters XLIII-XLIX 
Chapters L-LII 
Chapters LITIJ-LVII 


XX1. 


XX SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDY 


Each pupil should select a title for each of these main 
divisions of the story. He should remember that a good title 
should be (1) brief, (2) attractive, and, most important of all, 
(3) suggestive of the contents of the division. Then, either the 
class as a whole, or a committee of its members, should choose 
the best of the proposed titles. 

Frequently the divisions suggested above will form con- 
venient stations in the study of this novel. Of course, when- 
ever, in the judgment of the teacher, any division is too difh- 
cult or too important for the class to attempt its mastery in 
a single lesson, it should be divided. A word of caution, 
however: Do not undertake an exhaustive (the word is 
all too significant!) study of the book. Far better to get the 
heart of it, to appreciate it in the large, and to spend the time 
thus saved in reading rapidly some of the author’s other 
stories, such as The Crisis and Coniston. 


‘ THE STUDY OF THE PLOT 


The plot of a novel records the history of a struggle, 
sometimes with a single opponent, but more frequently with 
several. Like every other contest, that struggle is most 
interesting to us when we are led to take sides very keenly 
and to wish with our whole hearts that our side may win. 
It grips and holds us more strongly when the opposing 
forces are very evenly balanced; there 1s little fun in watching 
two unevenly matched contestants. Like a good game, a 
plot is most interesting when the advantage sways from side 
to side, and especially when the forces which enlist our 
sympathies, after being worsted for a time, finally conquer. 
Again, suspense and surprise heighten our pleasure in follow- 
ing either a game or a plot, especially if the situation grows 
tenser and tenser and finally reaches its height in a climax 
near the close. Sometimes a story grows tenser and tenser 
till it resembles the finish of an exciting game of baseball: 
the last half of the ninth inning; the score a tie; two men 
out and the bases full; two strikes and three balls for the 
batter! Suspense; possible surprise; the climax of the game! 


SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDY XXlil 


What are the contending forces in Richard Carvel? Does the 
hero struggle with more than one enemy? If so, name these. 
Show how the advantage is now with the hero and now 
against him. 

Where are suspense and surprise employed effectively in 
the course of the plot? 

Where does the interest of the story rise to its highest 
point, or climax? 

Where, in the course of the story, do you take sides most 
strongly with the hero? 

Are there any parts of the story which might be omitted 
without seriously i injuring the plot as a whole? If so, what 
was the author’s purpose in including these? 

Give three advantages and two disadvantages in thus tell- 
ing the story in the first person, 7. ¢., in allowing the hero to 
narrate these experiences. 

Should you prefer a different ending? For example, should 
Grafton Carvel have been more severely punished for his 
misdeeds? 


THE STUDY OF THE CHARACTERS 


If you could talk with some character that lives in a book, 
which would you choose? Would it be Silas Marner or Dolly 
Winthrop; Jim Hawkins or Long John Silver in Treasure 
Island; or Portia in The Merchant of Venice? Whoever 
might be our choice, we all know people in bookland whom we 
admire very much, and whom we seem to know so well that 
we should recognize them if they came walking down the 
street. Sometimes his characters are very, very real to an 
author. Thus, we are told, that after he wrote the chapter 
in Dombey and Son depicting Little Paul’ 8 death, Charles 
Dickens walked the city streets, repeating, “Paul Dombey is 
dead; Paul Dombey is dead!’ Occasionally, indeed, an author 
pictures so plainly these children of his fancy that we seem 
to know them better than we do many of the people with 
whom we touch elbows on the streets of life. 

In portraying his people the author frequently begins by 


XXIV SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDY 


giving a short description of their personal appearance, 
including their dress. If he is a skillful craftsman, he will tell 
us through these something of their characters. Usually the 
first appearance of an important personage in the story will 
be so presented as to suggest much of his nature and of his 
probable development. Then, through action and dialogue— 
telling us what the character says and does, what others 
say to him and do to him—the author acquaints us with these 
people of his fancy. Sometimes he may. stop the progress 
of his story while he chats about these characters, analyzing 
them for us, pointing out this trait and that. Thus George 
Eliot devotes a great many paragraphs to the analysis of the 
character of Silas Marner. 

An unskillful novelist will frequently depict his people as 
either all good or all bad: he paints them as either all black 
or all white of mind and of soul. But if we stop to think for 
a moment, we soon realize that such people are not true to 
life, that we are all combinations, interesting combinations, of 
desirable and undesirable qualities, and that the author who 
would depict real people must show them as similar com- 
binations. 

Of course authors differ in their ability to portray character 
and in their methods of procedure. Some can delineate 


many life-like characters; some only a few, or one, or none. . 


Occasionally a writer creates people who so attract us that 
they seem almost our warm, personal friends. Some writers, 
such as Scott and Dickens, love to crowd their stories with a 
great many characters; others, such as Hawthorne, do their 
best work with only a few in each story. Furthermore, we 
occasionally discover an author who seems equally at home 
with nearly every class of society, who draws with almost un- 
varying powers the rich and the poor, high and low, youth 
and age, gentlemen and scoundrels. More frequently, how- 
ever, the novelist 1s at his best with some one class of people, 
understands them more thoroughly, sympathizes more 
keenly with them, and consequently depicts them more 
successfully than he does any others. 


—— ee 


SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDY XXV 


Again, to mention but one more phase of this interesting 
subject, characters may be either stationary or developing; 
either they continue unchanged throughout the course of 
the story, or through their experiences they grow and de- 
velop till they scarcely seem the same persons we met in the 
early chapters of the narrative. Thus, in George Eliot’s 
best known story, Dolly Winthrop does not change much, but 
Silas Marner is almost completely transformed. Of course, 
whenever an author chooses to represent a character as 
developing, he must trace clearly the progress of that change, 
and he must account for it to our satisfaction. To show us 
in a story even a few characters that are developed con- 
vincingly is. one of the greatest triumphs of the story-teller’s 
art. 

Such, briefly, are some of the chief points to be emphasized 
in the study of characters in fiction. Using this discussion as a 
basis, each student may hand to the teacher .or to.a class 
committee a list of questions for the study of the personages 
in Richard Carvel. Each pupil should be quite sure before 
presenting these questions that they are as clear, as important, 
and as interesting as he can make them. ‘he best of these 
will then be selected either by the teacher or by a committee 
and will furnish the basis for one or more periods of class 
discussion. 


THE BACKGROUND OF THE STORY 


Whoever has read Mark Twain’s 4 Connecticut Yankee 
in King Arthur's Court will recall how the hero of that fas- 
cinating story is transported to the England of the days of 
the Round Table. Similarly, the story of Richard Carvel takes 
us, as on’ a magic wishing carpet, back to the days of the 
lumbering coach and the sedan chair, to the struggle which 
gave us the United States. Our author conducts us in fancy 
to the busy Annapolis coffee house and out to the broad, 
prosperous tobacco plantation. Now we are watching hie 
drunken crew on the pirate ship, and later we are walking 
down the London streets in the days of George III and Charles 


XXV1 SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDY 


James Fox. Thus it is the privilege of the novelist to call to 
life a past age, to show us how its people lived and thought 
and talked. Against this background of history are staged 
the adventures of Richard Carvel. Sometimes the great men 
of old step forward to play their part in this story of the 
hero’s fortunes and misfortunes; occasionally the adventures 
of our hero, as in the thrilling sea fight, become part and 
parcel of that history. 

At times this illusion of the past is helped by the introduc- 
tion of such old-fashioned words as “‘macaroni”’ and “minx” 
sometimes it comes with a glimpse of Richard’s ruffles at the 
wrists of his plum colored coat, or the sight of his three 
cornered hat. Again, it is the brig in flames because its owner 
has dared to pay the hated tax on tea; or the decks of the 
Bon Homme Richard strewn with sand to keep the sailors 
from slipping in the pools of blood. To live for a time in 
these wonderful days, to observe its men and women, and to 
watch the pageant of history which forms the setting of the 
story, are not the least among the privileges of the readers of 
Richard Carvel. 

In studying the background of this story, one or more class 
periods may profitably ‘be given to reports on such topics as 
the following, the materials for most of which should be 
drawn primarily from Richard Carvel but enriched with addi- 
tions from other sources. The Bibliography will suggest 
some good sources for many of these reports: 

Dress and Manners in Colonial Annapolis. 

Amusements of the Time. 

Occupations and Trades. 

Servants and Slaves. 

Eighteenth-Century Words in Richard Carvel. 

The Colonial Governors of Maryland. 

Annapolis and the Revolution. 

More Information about John Paul Jones. 

The Life of Charles James Fox. 

London in the Mid-Eighteenth Century. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 


AFTER reading Richard Carvel, the student may wish to 
take an inexpensive trip to Annapolis. 4 Guide to Annapolis 
and the Naval Academy, by W. O. Stevens and C. S. Alden, 
published by the Lord Baltimore Press, Baltimore, 25 cents, 
contains much material of interest. 

The Bookman, XLI, 608 ff., is especially valuable for its 
pictures of some of the scenes of Richard Carvel. 

One of the best books on the life and times portrayed in 
this novel is 4 Colonial Governor in Maryland, Horatio 
Sharpe and His Times, by Matilda Edgar. Longmans, Green 
and Co., 1912. 

Hester Dorsey Richardson, Side-lights on Maryland 
History, I, I1. Williams and Wilkins, 1913. 

Alice Morse Earle, Home Life in Colonial Days. The Mac- 
millan Company, 1906. 

Alice Morse Earle, Costumes of Colonial Times. Charles 
Scribner’s Sons, 1894. 

Walter Besant, London in the Eighteenth Century. A. C. 
Black, 1903. 

The fullest and best discussion of John Paul Jones is that 
of Mrs. Reginald de Koven, The Life and Letters of John Paul 
Jones, I, Il, Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1913. Shorter and very 
interesting is Cyrus Townsend Brady’s Great Commanders: 
Commodore Paul Jones, D. Appleton and Co., 1906. 

John Paul Jones, by Lewis Frank Tooker, The Macmillan 
Company, 1916, and 4 History of the United States Navy, by 
John R. Spears, Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1916, are also worth- 
while books. . 

George Otto Trevelyan, George the Third and Charles 
James Fox. Longmans, Green and Co., 1914. 


XXVIl 


XXVIill | BIBLIOGRAPHY 


Henry Cabot Lodge’s Studies in History, Houghton Mifflin” 
and Co., contains a valuable chapter on the early life of Fox. | 

The Critic, XL, 135, gives a vivid picture of Mr. Churchill’s: 
present home. 

Other magazine articles of especial value are: ; 
Matte North American Review, LXXXIV, 416, by Hamileont 

abie. 

The Atlantic Monthly, LXXXV, 410, by W. E. Simonds. 

Among the books of worth may also be mentioned: 

Greene Some American Story Tellers. 

ree The Iden Who Make Our Novels. 
Harkins, Little Pilgrimages among the Men Who Hove’ 
Written Famous Books. 

Pattee, 4 History of American Literature since 1870. 

Phelps, The Advance of English Literature. 

Van Doren, Contemporary American Novelists. 

The young reader, however, will probably find it more 
profitable to spend any spare time in reading more widely in © 
Mr. Churchill’s other novels. The Crisis, The Crossing, Conis- 
ton, and Mr. Crewe’s Career are the best for his purposes. 





RICHARD CARVEL 


CHAPTER 


LIONEL CARVEL, OF CARVEL HALL 


LIoneEL CarveEL, Esq., of Carvel Hall, in the county of 
Queen Anne, was no inconsiderable man in his Lordship’s 
province of Maryland, and indeed he was not unknown in the 
colonial capitals from Williamsburg to Boston. When his 
ships arrived out, in May or June, they made a goodly show- 5 
ing at the wharves, and his captains were ever shrewd men 
of judgment who sniffed a Frenchman on the horizon, so that 
none of the Carvel tobacco ever went, in that way, to gladden 
a Gallic heart. Mr. Carvel’s acres were both rich and broad, 
and his house wide for the stranger who might seek its shelter, ro 
as with God’s help so it ever shall be. It has yet to be said of 
the Carvels that their guests are hurried away, or that one, by 
reason of his worldly goods or position, shall be more welcome 
than another. 

I take no shame in the pride with which I write of my rs 
srandfather, albeit he took the part of his Majesty and Par- 
lament against the Colonies. He was no palavering turn- 
coat, like my Uncle Grafton, to cry “‘God save the King!” 
again when an English fleet sailed up the bay. Mr. Carvel’s 
nand was large and his heart was large, and he was respected 20 
and even loved by the patriots as a man above paltry sub- 
terfuge. He was born at Carvel Hall in the year of our Lord 
1696, when the house was, I am told, but a small dwelling. It 
was his father, George Carvel, my great-grandsire, reared the 
present house in the year 1720, of brick brought from England 2s 
as ballast for the empty ships; he added on, in the years 


2 RICHARD CARVEL 


following, the wide wings containing the ball-room, and th 
banquet- -hall, and the large library at the eastern end, and the 
offices. But it was my g erandfather who built the great stables 
and the kennels where he kept his beagles and his fleeter 
s hounds. He dearly loved the saddle and the chase, and taught 
me to love them too. Many the sharp winter day I have fol- 
lowed the fox with him over two counties, and lain that night, 
and a week after, forsooth, at the plantation of some kind 
friend who was only too glad to receive us. Often, too, have 
10 we stood together from early morning until dark night, waist 
deep, on the duck points, I with a fowling-piece I was all but 
too young to carry, and brought back a hundred red-heads or 
canvas-backs in our bags. He went with unfailing regularity 
to the races at Annapolis or Chestertown or Marlborough, 
rs often to see his own horses run, where the coaches of tha 
gentry were fifty and sixty around the course; where a negro, 
or a hogshead of tobacco, or a pipe of Madeira was often 
staked at a single throw. Those times, my children, are not 
ours, and I thought it not strange that Mr. Carvel should 
20 delight in a good main between two cocks, or a bull-baiting, or 
a breaking of heads at the Chestertown fair, where he went to 
show his cattle and fling a guinea into the ring for the winner. 
But it must not be thought that Lionel Carvel, your ances- 
tor, was wholly unlettered hesase Hee sportsman, though 
25 1t must be confessed that books occupied him only when the 
weather compelled, or when on his back with the gout. At 
times he would fain have me read to him as he lay in his great 
four-post bed with the flowered counterpane, from the Specta- 
tor, stopping me now and anon at some awakened memory of 
30 his youth. He never forgave Mr. Addison for killing stout old 
Sir Roger de Coverley, and would never listen to the butler’s 
account of his death. Mr. Carvel, too, had walked in Gray’s 
Inn Gardens and met adventure at Fox Hall, and seen the 
great Marlborough himself. He had a fondness for Mr. Con- 
35 greve’s comedies, some of which he had seen acted; and was 
partial to Mr. Gay’s Trivia, which brought him many a recol- 
lection. He would also listen to Pope. But of the more mod- 


f 


ee. a _ 





LIONEL CARVEL OF CARVEL HALL ; 


ern poetry I think Mr. Gray’s Elegy pleased him best. He 
would laugh over Swift’s gall and wormwood, and would never 
be brought by my mother to acknowledge the defects in the 
Dean’s character. Why? He had once met the Dean in a 
London drawing-room, when my grandfather was a young 5 
spark at Christ Church, Oxford. He never tired of relating 
that interview. The hostess was a very great lady indeed, and 
actually stood waiting for a word with his Reverence, whose 
whim it was rather to talk to the young provincial. He was 
a forbidding figure, in his black gown and periwig, so my to 
grandfather said, with a piercing blue eye and shaggy brow. 
He made the mighty to come to him, while young Carvel stood 
between laughter and fear of the great lady’s displeasure. 

“IT knew of your father,” said the Dean, “before he went to 
the Colonies. He had done better at home, sir. He was a man 1s 
of parts.’ 

“He has done indifferently well in Maryland, sir,” said Mr. 
Carvel, making his bow. 

" He hath gained wealth, forsooth,” says the Dean, wrath- 
fully, “‘and might have had both wealth-and fame had his 20 
love for King “James not turned his head. I have heard 
much of the Col onies, and have read that doggerel ‘Sot 
Weed Factor’ which tells of the gluttonous life of ease you 
lead in your own province. You can have no men of mark 
from such conditions, Mr. Carvel. Tell me,’ > he adds con-2s 
temptuously, “is genius honoured among your” 

“Faith, it is honoured, your Reverence,” said my grand- 
father, “but never encouraged.” 

This answer so pleased the Dean that he bade Mr. Carvel 
dine with him next day at Button’s Coffee House, where they 30 
drank mulled wine and old sack, for which young Mr. Carvel 
paid. On which occasion his Reverence endeavoured to per- 
suade the young man to remain in England, and even went so 
far as to promise his influence to obtain him preferment. But 
Mr. Carvel chose rather (wisely or not, who can judge?) to3s 
come back to Carvel Hall and to the lands of which he was 

to be master, and to play the country squire and provincial 


4 RICHARD CARVEL 


magnate rather than follow the varying fortunes of a political 
party at home. And he was a man much looked up to in the 
province before the Revolution, and sat at the council board of 
his Excellency the Governor, as his father had done before 

shim, and represented the crown in more matters than one 
when the French and savages were upon our frontiers. 

Although a lover of good cheer, Mr. Carvel was never intem- 
perate. ‘To the end of his days he enjoyed his bottle after 
dinner, nay, could scarce get along without it; and mixed a_ 

ro punch or a posset as well as any in our colony. He chose a 
good London-brewed ale or porter, and his ships brought 
Madeira from that island by the pipe, and sack from Spain” 
and Portugal, and red wine from France when there was 
peace. And puncheons of rum from Jamaica and the Indies” 

1s for his people, holding that no gentleman ever drank rum in 
the raw, though fairly supportable as punch. 

Mr. Carvel’s house stands in Marlborough Street, a in 
mansion enough. Praised be Heaven that those who inherit ita 
are not obliged to live there on the memory of what was in_ 

20 days gone by. The heavy green shutters are closed; the high | 
steps, “though stoutly built, are shaky after these years of dis- 
use; the host of faithful servants who kept its state are nearly 
all laid side by side at Carvel Hall. Harvey and Chess and - 
Scipio are no more. The kitchen, whither a boyish hunger oft 

25 directed my eyes at twilight, shines not with the welcoming | 
gleam of yore. Chess no longer prepares the dainties which) 
astonished Mr. Carvel’s guests, and which he alone could cook. 
The coach still stands in the stables where Harvey left it, a 
lumbering relic of those lumbering times when methinks there 

30 Was more of good will and less of haste in the world. The 
great brass knocker, once resplendent from Scipio's careful 
hand, no longer fantastically reflects the guest as he beats his” 
tattoo, and Mr. Peale’s portrait of my ‘erandfather 3 is gone 
from the dining-room wall, adorning, as you know, our own, 

35 drawing-room at Calvert re See C 

I shut my eyes, and there comes to me unbidden thatdining 
room in Marlborough Street of a gray winter's afternoon, when’ 


LIONEL CARVEL OF CARVEL HALL 5 


I was but a lad. I see my dear grandfather in his wig and 
silver-laced waistcoat and his blue velvet coat, seated at the 
head of the table, and the precise Scipio has put down the 
dumb-waiter filled with shining cut-glass at his left hand, and 
his wine chest at his right, and with solemn pomp driven his 5 
black assistants from the room. Scipio was Mr. Carvel’s but- 
ler. He was forbid to light the candles after dinner. As dark 
grew on, Mr. Carvel liked the blazing logs for light, and pres- 
ently sets the decanter on the corner of the table and draws 
nearer the fire, his guests following. I recall well how jolly ro 
Governor Sharpe, who was a frequent visitor with us, was 
wont to display a comely calf in silk stocking; and how Cap- 
tain Daniel Clapsaddle would spread his feet with his toes out, 
and settle his long pipe between his teeth. And there were 
besides a host of others who sat at that fire whose names have :; 
passed into Maryland’s history,—Whig and Tory alike. And 

I remember a tall slip of a lad who sat listening by the deep- 
recessed windows on the street, which somehow are always 
covered in these pictures with a fine rain. Then a coach 
passes,—a mahogany coach emblazoned with the Manners’s 2, 
coat of arms, and Mistress Dorothy and her mother within. 
And my young lady gives me one of those demure bows which 
ever set my heart agoing like a smith’s hammer of a Monday. 


—— 


CHAPTER II 


SOME MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD 


A TRAVELLER who has all but gained the last height of the 
ereat mist-covered mountain looks back over the painful crags 
he has mastered to where a light is shining on the first easy 
slope. That light is ever visible, for it is Youth. 

s After nigh fourscore and ten years of life that Youth ts 
nearer to me now than many things which befell me later. I 
recall as yesterday the day Captain Clapsaddle rode to the 
Hall, his horse covered with sweat, and the reluctant tidings of 
Captain Jack Carvel’s death on his lips. And strangely enough 

ro that day sticks in my memory as of delight rather than sad- 
ness. When my poor mother had gone up the stairs on my 
erandfather’s arm the strong soldier took me on his knee, and 
drawing his pistol from his holster bade me snap the lock, 
which I was barely able to do. And he told me wonderful 

15 tales of the woods beyond the mountains, and of the painted 
men who tracked them; much wilder and fiercer they were 
than those stray Nanticokes I had seen from time to time near 
Carvel Hall. And when at last he would go I clung to him, so 
he swung me to the back of his great horse Ronald, and I 

20 seized the bridle in my small hands. The noble beast, like his 
master, loved a child well, and he cantered off lightly at the 
captain’s whistle, who cried “bravo” and ran by my side lest 
I should fall. Lifting me of at length he kissed me and 
bade me not to annoy my mother, the tears in his eyes again, 

25 And leaning on Ronald was away for the ferry with never so 
much as a look behind, leaving me standing in the road. 4 

And from that time I saw more of him and loved him better 
than any man save my grandfather. He gave me a pony of 
my next birthday, and a little hogskin saddle made ee 


6 


SOME MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD 4 


by Master Wythe, the London saddler in the town, with a 
silver-mounted bridle. Indeed, rarely did the captain return 
from one of his long journeys without something for me and a 
handsome present for my mother. Mr. Carvel would have had 
him make his home with us when we were in town, but this he 5 
would not do. He lodged in Church Street, over against the 
Coffee House, dining at that hostelry when not bidden out, or 
when not with us. He was much sought after. I believe 
there was scarce a man of note in any of the colonies not num- 
bered among his friends. *[was said he loved my mother, 10 
and could never come to care for any other woman, and he 
promised my father in the forests to look after her welfare 
and mine.. [his promise, you shall see, he faithfully kept. 
Though you have often heard from my lips the story of my 
mother, I must, for the sake of those who are to come after is 
you, set it down here as briefly as I may. My grandfather’s 
bark Charming Sally, Captain Stanwix, having set out from 
Bristol on the 15th of April, 1736, with a fair wind astern and 
a full cargo of English goods below, near the Madeiras fell in 
with foul weather, which increased as she entered the trades. 20 
Captain Stanwix being a prudent man, shortened sail, know- 
ing the harbour of Funchal to be but a shallow bight in the 
rock, and worse than the open sea in a southeaster. The third 
day he hove the Sally to; being a stout craft and not overladen 
she weathered the gale with the loss of a jib, and was about 25 
making topsails again when a full-rigged ship was descried in 
the ofiing giving signals of distress. Night was coming on 
very fast, and the sea was yet running too high for a boat to 
live, but the gallant captain furled his topsails once more to 
await the morning. It could be seen from her signals that the 30 
ship was living throughout the night, but at dawn she foun- 
dered before the Saily’s boats could be put in the water; one of 
them was ground to pieces on the falls. Out of the ship’s 
company and passengers they picked up but five souls, four 
sailors and a little girl of two years or thereabouts. The men 35 
snew nothing more of her than that she had come aboard at 
Brest with her mother, a quiet, delicate lady who spoke little 


8 RICHARD CARVEL 


with the other passengers. The ship was La Favourite du 
Roy, bound for the French Indies. 
Captain Stanwix’s wife, who was a good, motherly person, 
took charge of the little orphan, and arriving at Carvel Hall 
5 delivered her to my grandfather, who brought her up as his” 
own daughter. You may be sure the emblem of Catholicism 
found upon her was destroyed, and she was baptized straight- 
way by Doctor Hilliard, my grandfather’s chaplain, into the 
Established Church. Her clothes were of the finest quality, 
ro and her little handkerchief had worked into the corner of it a 
coronet, with the initials ““E de IT” beside it. Around her 
neck was that locket with the gold chain which I have so often 
shown you, on one side of which is the miniature of the young 
officer in his most Christian Majesty’s uniform, and on the 
15 other a yellow-faded slip of paper with these words: “ Elle est 
la mienne, quoiqu elle ne porte pas mon nom.” “She is mine, 
although she does not bear my name.” 
My grandfather wrote to the owners of La Favourite du 
Roy and likewise directed his English agent to spare nothing 
20 in the search for some clew to the child’s identity. All that he 
found was that the mother had been entered on the passenger- 
list as Madame la Farge, ‘of Paris, and was bound for Marti- 
nico. Of the father there was no trace whatever. The name 
“la Farge” the agent, Mr. Dix, knew almost to a certainty was 
25 assumed, and the coronet on the handkerchief implied that 
the child was of noble parentage. The meaning conveyed by 
the paper in the locket, which was plainly a clipping from a 
letter, was such that Mr. Carvel never showed it to my mother, 
and would have destroyed it had he not felt that some day it 
30 might aid in solving the mystery. So he kept it in his strong: 
box, where he thought it safe from prying eyes. But my Uncle 
Grafton, ever a deceitful lad, at length discovered the key and 
read the paper, and afterwards used the knowledge he thus 
obtained as a reproach and a taunt against my mother. I can; 
35 not even now write his name without repulsion. | 
This new member of the household was renamed Elizabeth 
Carvel, though they called her Bess, and of course she was 





SOME MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD 9 


greatly petted and spoiled, and ruled all those about her. As 
she grew from childhood to womanhood her beauty became 
talked about, and afterwards, when Mistress Carvel went to 
the Assembly, a dozen young sparks would crowd about the 
door of her coach, and older and more serious men lost their s 
heads on her account. 

Her devotion to Mr. Carvel was such, however, that she 
seemed to care but little for the attention she received, and 
she continued to grace his board and entertain his com- 
pany. He fairly worshipped her. It was his delight to sur- 10 
prise her with presents from England, with mch silks and 
brocades for gowns, for he loved to see her bravely dressed. 
The spinet he gave her, mlaid with ivory, we have still. 
And he caused a chariot to be made for her in London, and 
she had her own horses and her groom in the Carvel livery. rs 

People said it was but natural that she should fall in love 
with Captain Jack, my father. He was the soldier of the 
family, tall and straight and dashing. He differed from his 
younger brother Grafton as day from night. Captain Jack 
Was open and generous, though a little given to rash enterprise 20 
and madcap adventure. He loved my mother from a child. 
His friend Captain Clapsaddle loved. her too, and likewise 
Grafton, but it soon became evident that she would marry 
Captain Jack or nobody. He was my grandfather’s favourite, 
and though Mr. Carvel had wished him more serious, his joy 25 
when Bess blushingly told him the news was a pleasure to see. 
And Grafton turned to revenge; he went to Mr. Carvel with 
the paper he had taken from the strong-box and claimed that 
my mother was of spurious birth and not fit to marry a Carvel. 
He afterwards spread the story secretly among the friends of 30 
the family. By good fortune little harm arose therefrom, since 
all who knew my mother loved her, and were willing to give 
her credit for the doubt; many, indeed, thought the story 
sprang from Grafton’s jealousy and hatred. Then it was 
that Mr. Carvel gave to Grafton the estate in Kent County 35 
and bade him shift for himself, saying that he washed his 
hands of a son who had acted such a part. 


10 ) RICHARD CARVEL 


But Captain Clapsaddle came to the wedding in the long 
drawing-room at the Hall and stood by Captain Jack when he 
was married, and kissed the bride heartily. And my mother 
cried about this afterwards, and said that it grieved her sorely 

5 that she should have given pain to such a noble man. 
After the blow which left her a widow, she continued to 
_ keep Mr. Carvel’s home. I recall her well, chiefly as a sad and 
beautiful woman, stately save when she kissed me with passion 
and said that I bore my father’s look. She drooped like the 
10 flower she was, and one spring day my grandfather led me to 
receive her blessing and to be folded for the last time in those 
dear arms. With a smile on her lips she rose to heaven to 
meet my father. And she lies buried with the rest of the 
Carvels at the Hall, next to the brave captain, her husband. 
13 And so I grew up with my grandfather, spending the win= 
ters in town and the long summers on the Eastern Shore. I 
loved the country best, and the old house with its hundred feet 
of front standing on the gentle slope rising from the river’s 
mouth, the green vines Mr. Carvel had fetched from England 
20 all but hiding the brick, and climbing to the angled roof; and 
the velvet green lawn of silvery grass brought from England, 
descending gently terrace by terrace to the waterside, where 
lay our pungies and barges. There was then a tiny pillared 
porch framing the front door, for our ancestors never could be 
25 got to realize the Maryland climate, and would rarely build 
themselves wide verandas suitable to that colony. At Carvel 
Hall we had, to be sure, the cool spring-house under the wil- 
lows for sultry days, with its pool dished out for bathing; and 
a,trellised arbour, and octagonal summer-house with seats 
30 Where my mother was wont to sit sewing while my grandfather 
dreamed over his pipe. On the lawn stood the oaks and wal- 
nuts and sycamores which still cast their shade over it, and 
under them of a summer’s evening Mr. Carvel would have his 
tea alone; save oftentimes when a barge would come swinging 
35 up the river with ten velvet-capped blacks at the oars, and one 
of our friendly neighbours—Mr. Lloyd or Mr. Bordley, or 
perchance little Mr. Manners—would stop for a long evening 





SOME MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD II 


with him. They seldom came without their ladies and chil- 
dren. What romps we youngsters had about the old place 
whilst our elders talked their politics. 

In childhood the season which delighted me the most was 
spring. I would count the days until St. Taminas, which, as 
you know, falls on the first of May. And the old custom was 
for the young men to deck themselves out as Indian bucks and 
sweep down on the festivities around the Maypole on the town 
green, or at night to surprise the guests at a ball and force the 
gentlemen to pay down a shilling, and sometimes a crown 
apiece, and the host to give them a bowl of punch. Then came 
June. My grandfather celebrated his Majesty’s birthday in 
his own jolly fashion, and I had my own birthday party on the 
tenth. And on the fifteenth, unless it chanced upon a Sunday, 
my grandfather never failed to embark in his pinnace at the 
Annapolis dock for the Hall. Once seated in the stern be- 
tween Mr. Carvel’s knees, what rapture when at last we shot 
out into the blue waters of the bay and I thought of the long 
summer of joy before me. Scipio was generalissimo of these 
arrangements, and was always at the dock punctually at ten to 
hand my grandfather in, a ceremony in which he took great 
pride, and to look his disapproval should we be late. As he 
‘turned over the key of the town house he would walk away 
with a stern dignity to marshal the other servants in the 
horse-boat. 

— One fifteenth of June two children sat with bated breath in 
the pinnace,—Dorothy Manners and myself. Mistress Dolly 
was then as mischievous a little baggage as ever she proved 
afterwards. She was coming to pass a week at the Hall, 
her parents, whose place was next to ours, having gone to 
Philadelphia on a visit. We rounded Kent Island, which lay 
green and beautiful in the flashing waters, and at length 
caught sight of the old windmill, with its great arms majesti- 
cally turning, and the cupola of Carvel House shining white 
among the trees; and of the upper spars of the shipping, with 
sails neatly furled, lying at the long wharves, where the Eng- 
lish wares Mr. Carvel had commanded for the return trips 


5 


25 


30 


35 


12 RICHARD CARVEL 


ll 


were unloading. Scarce was the pinnace brought into the 
wind before I had leaped ashore and greeted with a shout the. 
Hall servants drawn up in a line on the green, grinning a wel- 
come. Dorothy and I scampered over the grass and into the 
scool, wide house, resting awhile on the easy sloping steps 
within, hand in hand. And then away for that grand tour of 
inspection we had been so long planning together. How well 
I recall that sunny afternoon, ‘when the shadows of the great 
oaks were just beginning to lengthen. Through the green- 
ro houses we marched, monarchs of all we surveyed, old Por-= 
phery, the gardener, presenting Mistress Dolly with a crown 
of orange blossoms, for which she thanked him with a pretty 
curtesy her governess had taught her. Were we not king and 
queen returned to our summer palace? And Spot and Silver 
z5 and Song and Knipe, the wolf-hound, were our train, though 
not as decorous as rigid etiquette demanded, since they were 
forever running after the butterflies. On we went through the 
stiff, box-bordered walks of the garden, past the weather- 
beaten sundial and the spinning-house and the smoke-house 
20 to the stables. Here old Harvey, who had taught me to ride 
Captain Daniel’s pony, is equerry, and young Harvey our per- 
sonal attendant; old Harvey smiles as we go in and out of the 
stalls rubbing the noses of our trusted friends, and gives a 
gruff but kindly warning as to Cassandra’s heels. He recalls 
2s my father at the same age. 

Jonas Tree, the carpenter, sits sunning himself on his bench 
before the shop, but mysteriously disappears when he sees us, 
and returns presently with a little ship he has fashioned for 
me that winter, all complete with spars and sails, for Jonas 

30 was a shipwright on the Severn in the old country before he 
came as a king’s passenger to the new. Dolly and I are off 
directly to the backwaters of the river, where the new boat is, 
launched with due ceremony as the Conqueror, his Majesty’s. 
latest ship-of-the-line. Jonas himself trims her sails, and she 

3s sets off right gallantly across the shallows, heeling to the 
breeze for all the world like a real man-o’-war. Then the King 
would fain cruise at once against the French, but Queen Doro- 


; 


SOME MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD 13 


thy must needs go with him. His Majesty points out that 
when fighting is to be done, a ship of war is no place for a 
woman, whereat her Majesty stamps her little foot and throws 
her crown of orange blossoms from her, and starts off for the 
milk-house in high dudgeon, vowing she will play no more. s 
And it ends as it ever will end, be the children young or old, 
for the French pass from his Majesty’s mind and he runs after 
his consort to implore forgiveness, leaving poor Jonas to take 
care of the Conqueror. 

How short those summer days! All too short for the girl 10 
and boy who had so much to do in them. ‘The sun rising over 
the forest often found us peeping through the blinds, and when 
he sank into the bay at night we were still running, tired but 
happy, and begging patient Hester for half an hour more. 

**Lawd, Marse Dick,” I can hear her say, “you an’ Miss rs 
Dolly’s been on yo feet since de dawn. And so’s I, honey.” 

And so we had. We would spend whole days on the wharves, 
all bustle and excitement, sometimes seated on the capstan of 
the Sprightly Bess or-perched in the nettings of the Oriole, of 
which ship old Stanwix was now captain. He had grown gray 20 
in Mr. Carvel’s service, and good Mrs. Stanwix was long since 
dead. Often we would mount together on the little horse 
Captain Daniel had given me, Dorothy on a pillion behind, 
to go with my grandfather to inspect the farm. Mr. Starkie, 
‘the overseer, would ride beside us, his fowling-piece slung 25 
over his shoulder and his holster on his hip; a kind man 
and capable, and unlike Mr. Evans, my Uncle Grafton’s over- 
seer, was seldom known to use his firearms or the rawhide 
slung across his saddle. ‘The negroes in their linsey-woolsey 
jackets and checked trousers would stand among the hills 30 
grinning at us children as we passed; and there was not one 
of them, nor of the white servants for that matter, that I could 
not call by name. 

And all this time I was busily wooing Mistress Dolly; but 
she, little minx, would give me no satisfaction. I see her 35 
standing among the strawberries, her black hair waving in the 
wind, and her red lips redder still from the stain, And the 


14 RICHARD CARVEL 


sound of her childish voice comes back to me now after all 
these years. And this was my first proposal :— 

“Dorothy, when you grow up and I[ grow up, you will marry 
me, and I shall give you all these strawberries.” 

s ‘I will marry none but a soldier,” says she, “and a great 
man. 

“Then will I be a soldier,” I cried, ‘“‘and greater than the 
Governor himself.”” And I believed it. 

“Papa says I shall marry an earl,” retorts Dorothy, with a 

ro toss of her pretty head. 

“There are no earls among us,”’ I exclaimed hotly, for even 
then I had some of that sturdy republican spirit which pre- 
vailed among the younger generation. “Our earls are those 
who have made their own way, like my grandfather.” For I 

1s had lately heard Captain Clapsaddle say this and much more 
on the subject. But Dorothy turned up her nose. 

“TI shall go home when I am eighteen,” she said, “and I 
shall meet his Majesty the King.” 

And to such an argument I found no logical answer. 

2o Mr. Marmaduke Manners and his lady came to fetch Doro- 
thy home. He was a foppish little gentleman who thought 
more of the cut of his waistcoat than of the affairs of the 
province, and would rather have been bidden to lead the 
assembly ball than to sit in council with his Excellency the 

2s Governor. My first recollection of him is of contempt. He 
must needs have his morning punch just so, and complained 
whiningly of Scipio if some perchance were spilled on the 
glass. He must needs be taken abroad in a chair when it 
rained. And though in the course of a summer he was often at 

30 Carvel Hall he never tarried long, and came to see Mr. Car- 
vel’s guests rather than Mr. Carvel. He had little in common 
with my grandfather, whose chief business and pleasure was 
to promote industry on his farm. Mr. Marmaduke was wont 
to rise at noon, and knew not wheat from barley, or good leaf 

3s from bad; his hands he kept like a lady’s, rendermg them 
almost useless by the long lace in the sleeves, and his chief 
pastime was cardplaying. It was but reasonable therefore, 


7 


SOME MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD 15 


when the troubles with the mother country began, that he 
chose the King’s side alike from indolence and contempt for 
things republican. 

Of Mrs. Manners I shall say more by and by. 

I took a mischievous delight in giving Mr. Manners every 5 
annoyance my boyish fancy could conceive. The evening of 
his arrival he and Mr. Carvel set out for a stroll about the 
house, Mr. Marmaduke mincing his steps, for it had rained 
that morning. And presently they came upon the windmill 
with its long arms moving lazily in the light breeze, near 10 
touching the ground as they passed, for the mill was built in 
the Dutch fashion. I know not what moved me, but hearing 
Mr. Manners carelessly humming a minuet while my grand- 
father explained the usefulness of the mill, I seized hold of one 
of the long arms as it swung by, and before the gentlemen rs 
could prevent was carried slowly upwards. Dorothy screamed, 
and her father stood stock still with amazement and fear, Mr. 
Carvel being the only one who kept his presence of mind. 
“Hold on tight, Richard!’ 1 heard him cry. It was dizzy 
riding, though the motion was not great, and before I had 20 
reached the right angle I regretted my rashness. I caught a 
glimpse of the bay with the red sun on it, and as I turned saw 
far below me the white figure of Ivie Rawlinson, the Scotch 
miller, who had run out. “‘O haith!’’ he shouted. “‘ Haud fast, 
Mr. Richard!” And soI clung tightly and came down without 25 
much inconvenience, though indifferently glad to feel the 
ground again. 

Mr. Marmaduke, as I expected, was in a great temper, and 
swore he had not had such a fright for years. He looked for 
Mr. Carvel to cane me stoutly. But Ivie laughed heartily, and 30 
said: ““I wad ye’ll gang far for anither laddie wi’ the spunk, 
Mr. Manners,” and with a sly look at my grandfather, ‘‘Ilka 
day we hae some sic whigmeleery.”’ 

I think Mr. Carvel was not ill pleased with the feat, or with 
Mr. Marmaduke’s way of taking it. For afterwards I over- 3s 
heard him telling the story to Colonel Lloyd, and both gentle- 
men laughing over Mr. Manners’ discomfture. 


CHAPTER III 
CAUGHT BY THE TIDE 


Ir is a nigh impossible task on the memory to trace those 
influences by which a lad is led to form his life’s opinions, 
and for my part I hold that such things are bred into the bone, 
and that events only serve to strengthen them. In this way 

sonly can I account for my bitterness, at a very early age, 
against that King whom my seeming environment should have 
made me love. For my grandfather was as stanch a royalist 
as ever held a cup to majesty’s health. And children are most 
apt before they can reason for themselves to take the note 

ro from those of their elders who surround them. It is true that 
many of Mr. Carvel’s guests were of the opposite persuasion 
from him: Mr. Chase and Mr. Carroll, Mr. Lloyd and Mr. 
Bordley, and many others, including our friend Captain Clap- 
saddle. And these gentlemen were frequently in argument, 

zs but political discussion is Greek to a lad. 

Mr. Carvel, as I have said, was most of his life a member of 
the Council, a man from whom both Governor Sharpe and 
Governor Eden were glad to take advice because of his tem- 
perate judgment and deep knowledge of the people of the 

20 province. At times, when his Council was scattered, Gov- 
ernor Sharpe would consult Mr. Carvel alone, and often have 
I known my grandfather to embark in haste from the Hall in 
response to a call from his Excellency. 

*Twas in the latter part of August, in the year 1765, made 

25 memorable by the Stamp Act, that | first came in touch with 
the deep-set feelings of the times then beginning, and I count 
from that year the awakening of the sympathy which deter- 
mined by career. One sultry day I was wading in the shal- 
lows after crabs, when the Governor’s messenger came drifting 


16 





CAUGHT BY THE TIDE oy 


in, all impatience at the lack of wind. He ran to the house to 
seek Mr. Carvel, and | after him, with all a boy’s curiosity, as 
fast as my small legs would carry me. My grandfather hur- 
ried out to order his barge to be got ready at once, so that I 
knew something important was at hand. At first he refused 5 
me permission to go, but afterwards relented, and about eleven 
in the morning we pulled away strongly, the ten blacks bend- 
ing to the oars as if their lives were at stake. 

A wind arose before we sighted Greensbury Point, and I saw 
a bark sailing in, but thought nothing of this until Mr. Carvel, 10 
who had been silent and preoccupied, called for his glass and 
swept her decks. She soon shortened sail, and went so lei- 
surely that presently our light barge drew alongside, and I 
perceived Mr. Zachariah Hood, a merchant of the town, re- 
turning from London, hanging over her rail. Mr. Hood was 1s 
very pale in spite of his onl voyage; he flung up his cap at our 
boat, but Mr. Carvel’s salute in return was colder than he 
looked for. As we came in view of the dock, a fine rain was 
setting in, and to my astonishment I beheld such a mass of 
people assembled as I had never seen, and scarce standing- 20 
room on the wharves. We were to have gone to the Governor's 
wharf in the Severn, but my erandfather changed his inten- 
tion at once. Many of the crowd greeted him as we drew near 
them, and, having landed, respectfully made room for him to 
pass through. I followed him a-tremble with excitement and 25 
delight over such an unwonted experience. We had barely 
gone ten paces, however, before Mr. Carvel stopped abreast of 
Mr. Claude, mine host of the Coffee House, who cried:— 

“Hast seen his Majesty’s newest representative, Mr. Car- 
vel?” 30 

“Mr. Hood is on board the bark, sir,” replied my grand- 
father. “I take it you mean Mr. Hood.” 

“Ay, that I do; Mr. Zachariah Hood, come to lick stamps 
for his brother-colonists.” 

“After licking his Majesty’s boots,” says a wag near by, 35 
which brings a laugh from those about us. I remembered that 
I had heard some talk as to how Mr. Hocd had sought and 


18 RICHARD CARVEL 


obtained from King George the office of Stamp Distributor 
for the province. Now, my grandfather, God rest him! was 
as doughty an old gentleman as might well be, and would not 
listen without protest to remarks which bordered sedition. He 

s had little fear of things below, and none of a mob. 

“My masters,’ he shouted, with a flourish of his stick, so 
stoutly that people fell back from him, “know that ye are © 
met against the law, and endanger the peace of his Lordship’s © 
government.” | 

to ‘Good enough, Mr. Carvel,” said Claude, who seemed to be 
the spokesman. “But how if we are stamped against law and ~ 
his Lordship’s government? How then, sir? Your honour 
well knows we have naught against either, and are as peaceful © 
a mob as ever assembled.” 

15 This brought on a great laugh, and they shouted from all 
sides, ““How then, Mr. Carvel?” And my grandfather, per | 
ceiving that he would lose dignity by argument, and having” 
done his duty by a protest, was wisely content with that. 
They opened wider the lane for him to pass through, and he 

20 made his way, erect and somewhat defiant, to Mr. Pryse’ s, the 
coachmaker opposite, holding me by the hand. The second — 
storey of Pryse’s shop had a little balcony standing out in~ 
front, and here we established ourselves, that we might watch 
what was going forward. 3 

25 Lhe crowd below grew strangely silent as the bark ee 
nearer and nearer, until Mr. Hood showed himself on the) 
poop, when there rose a storm of hisses, mingled with shouts 
of derision. “‘How goes it at St. James, Mr. Hood?” and 
“Have you tasted his Majesty’s barley?’ And some asked 

30 him if he was come as their member of Parliament. Mr. Hood 
dropped a bow, though what he said was drowned. The bark 
came in prettily enough, men in the crowd even catching her 
lines and making them fast to the piles. A gangplank vad 
thrown over. “‘Come out, Mr. Hood,” they cried; ““ we ar 

3s here to do you honour, and to welcome you home again. * 
There were leather breeches with staves a- -plenty around that 
plank, and faces that meant no trifling. “‘McNeir, the rogue, 


Ce a er ae 


CAUGHT BY’ THE ‘TIDE | 19 


-exclaimed Mr. Carvel, “‘and that hulk of a tanner, Brown. 
And I would know those smith’s shoulders in a thousand.” 
“Right, sir,” says Pryse, “and ’twill serve them proper when 
the King’s troops come among them for quartering.’’ The 
‘gentry being Pryse’s patrons, he shaped his politics according 
to the company he was in: he could ill be expected to seize 
one of his own ash spokes and join the resistance. Just then 
I caught a glimpse of Captain Clapsaddle on the skirts of the 
crowd, and with him Mr. Swain and some of the dissenting 
gentry. And my boyish wrath burst forth against that man 10 
‘smirking and smiling on the decks of the bark, so that I 
shouted shrilly: “‘Mr. Hood will be cudgelled and tarred as 
he deserves,”’ and shook my little fist at him, so that many 
under us laughed and cheered me. Mr. Carvel pushed me 
back into the window and out of their sight. 15 
The crew of the bark had assembled on the quarter-deck, 
stout English tars every man of them, armed with pikes and 
belaying-pins; and at a word from the mate they rushed in 
a body over the plank. Some were thrust off into the water, 
but so fierce was their onset that others gained the wharf, 20 
laying sharply about them in all directions, but getting full as 
many knocks as they gave. For a space there was a very 
bedlam of cries and broken heads, those behind in the mob 
surging forward to reach the scrimmage, forcing their own 
comrades over the edge. McNeir had his thigh broken by a 25 
pike, and was dragged back after the first rush was over; and 
the mate of the bark was near to drowning, being rescued, 
indeed, by Graham, the tanner. Mr. Hood stood white in the 
gangway, dodging a missile now and then, waiting his chance, 
which never came. For many of the sailors were captured 30 
and carried bodily to the “ Rose and Crown” and the “Three 
Blue Balls,” where they became properly drunk on Jamaica 
rum; others made good their escape on board. And at length 
the bark cast off again, amidst jeers and threats, and one-third 
of her crew missing, and drifted slowly back to the roads. 35 
From the dock, after all was quiet, Mr. Carvel stepped into 
his barge and rowed to the Governor’s, whose house was 


‘ 


wn 





20 RICHARD CARVEL 


prettily situated near Hanover Street, with ground running 
down to the Severn. His Excellency appeared much relieved 
to see my grandfather; Mr. Daniel Dulany was with him, and _ 
the three gentlemen at once repaired to the Governor’s writ- 
s ing-closet for consultation. 

Mr. Carvel’s town house being closed, we stopped with his 
Excellency. There were, indeed, scarce any of the gentry in 
town at that season save a few of the Whig persuasion. Ex- 
citement ran very high; farmers flocked in every day from the © 

ro country round about to take part in the demonstration against 
the Act. Mr. Hood’s storehouse was burned to the ground. 
Mr. Hood getting ashore by stealth, came, however, unmo- 
lested to Annapolis and offered at a low price the goods he 
had brought out in the bark, thinking thus to propitiate his” 
zsenemies. This step but inflamed them the more. 

My grandfather having much business to look to, I was left 
to my own devices, and the devices of an impetuous lad of 
twelve are not always such as his elders would chose for him. 
I was continually burning with a desire to see what was pro-. 

20 ceeding in the town, and, hearing one day a great clamour and 
tolling of bells, I ran out of the Governor’s gate and down 
Northwest Street to the Circle, where a strange sight met” 
my eyes. A crowd like that I had seen on the dock had col- 
lected there, Mr. Swain and Mr. Hammond and other bar-_ 

as risters holding them in check. Mounted on a one-horse cart 
was a stuffed figure of the detested Mr. Hood. Mr. Ham-— 
mond made a speech, but for the laughter and cheering I could” 





not catch a word of it. I pushed through the people, as a boy 
will, diving between legs to get a better view, when I felt a 
30 hand upon my shoulder, bringing me up suddenly. And I 
recognized Mr. Matthias Tilghman, and with him was Mr. 
Samuel Chase. 
“Does your grandfather know you are here, lad?” said 
Mr. Tilghman. 
35 1 paused a moment for breath before I answered: “‘He 
attended the rally at the dock himself, sir, and | believe | 
enjoyed it.’ 







CAUGHT BY THE TIDE 21 


Both gentlemen smiled, and Mr. Chase remarked that, if all 
the other party were like Mr. Carvel, troubles would soon 
cease. “I mean not Grafton,” says he, with a wink at Mr. 
Tilghman. “Tl warrant, Richard, your uncle would be but 
ill pleased to see you in such company.” 

“Nay, sir,” I replied, for I never feared to speak up, “there 
are you wrong. | think it would please my uncle mightily.” 

“The lad hath indifferent penetration,” said Mr. Tilghman, 
laughing, and adding more soberly: “If you never do worse 
than this, Richard, Maryland may some day be proud of you.” 

Mr. Hammond having finished his speech, a paper was 
placed in the hand of the effigy, and the crowd bore it shout- 
ing and singing to the hill, where Mr. John Shaw, the city 
carpenter, had made a gibbet. There nine and thirty lashes 
were bestowed on the unfortunate image, the people crying out 
that this was the Mosaic Law. And I cried as loud as any, 
though I knew not the meaning of the words. They hung 
Mr. Hood to the gibbet and set fire to a tar barrel under him, 
and so left him. 

The town wore a holiday look that day, and I was loth to 
go back to the Governor’s house. Good patriots’ shops were 
closed, their owners parading as on Sunday in their best, 
pausing in knots at every corner to discuss the affair with 
which the town simmered. | encountered old Farris, the 
clockmaker, in his brown coat besprinkled behind with pow- 
der from his queue. “‘How now, Master Richard?’ says he, 
merrily. “This is no place for young gentlemen of your per- 
suasion.” 

Next I came upon young Dr. Courtenay, the wit of the 


T5 


20 


25 


Tuesday Club, of whom I shall have more to say hereafter. 30 


He was taking the air with Mr. James Fotheringay, Will’s 
eldest brother, but lately back from Oxford and the Temple. 
The doctor wore five-pound ruffles and a ten-pound wig, was 
dressed in cherry silk, and carried a long, clouded cane. His 
hat had the latest cock, for he was our macaroni of Annapolis. 
“Egad, Richard,” he cries, “you are the only other loyalist 
I have seen abroad to-day.” 


35 


22 RICHARD CARVEL 


I remember swelling with indignation at the affront. “I 
call them Tories, sir,” I flashed back, “‘and I am none such.” 
“No Tory!” says he, nudging Mr. Fotheringay, who was with 
him; ‘‘I had as lief believe your grandfather hated King 


5 George.” I astonished them both by retorting that Mr. Carvel ~ 


might think as he pleased, that being every man’s right; but 
that I chose to be a Whig. “I would tell you as a friend, 
young man,” replied the doctor, “that thy politics are not over 
politic.” And they left me puzzling, laughing with much 
rorelish over some catch in the doctor’s words. As for me, I 

could perceive no humour in them. 
It was now near six of the clock, but instead of going direct 


to the Governor’s I made my way down Church Street toward — 


the water. Near the dock I saw many people gathered in the 
15 street in front of the ‘‘Ship” tavern, a time-honoured resort 
much patronized by sailors. My curiosity led me to halt 
there also. The “Ship” had stood in that place nigh on to 
three-score years, it was said. Its latticed windows were 
swung open, and from within came snatches of “Tom Bow- 
20 ling,” “Rule Britannia,” and many songs scarce fit for a 
child to hear. Now and anon some one in the street would 
throw back a taunt to these British sentiments, which went 


unheeded. “They be drunk as lords,”’ said Weld, the butcher’s — 


apprentice, “and when they comes out we'll hev more than 
2s one broken head in this street.’ ‘The songs continuing, he 
cried again, “Come out, d—n ye.’ Weld had had more than 
his own portion of rum that day. Spying me seated on the 
gatepost opposite, he shouted: “So, ho, Master Carvel, the 


streets are not for his Majesty’s supporters to-day.” Other 


3o artisans who were there bade him leave me in peace, saying 


that my grandfather was a good friend of the people. The 


matter might have ended there had I been older and wiser, 
but the excitement of the day had gone to my head like wine. 


““T am as stout a patriot as you, Weld,” I shouted back, and 


3s flushed at the cheering that followed. And Weld ran up to 


me, and though [| was a good piece of a lad, swung me lightly 
onto his shoulder. “Harkee, Master Richard,” he said, “I 





. 


CAMGEET AD Yak AIDE | 23 


can get nothing out of the poltroons by shouting. Do you go 
in and say that Weld will fight any mother’s son of them 
single- handed.” 

“For shame, to send a lad into a tavern,” said old Robbins, 
who had known my grandfather these many years. But thes 
desire for a row was so great among the rest that they silenced 
him. Weld set me down, and I, nothing loth, ran through the 
open door. 

I had never before been in the “Ship,” nor, indeed, in any 
tavern save that of Master Dingley, near Carvel Hall. «Bhe.zo 
“Ship” was a bare place enough, with low black beams and 
sanded floor, and rough tables and chairsset-about.. On that 
September evening it was stifling hot; and the odours from the 
men, and the spilled rum and tobacco smoke, well-nigh over- 
powered me. The room was filled with a motley gang of1s 
sailors, mostly from the bark Mr. Hood had come on, and 
some from H.M.S. Hawk, then lying in the harbour. 

A strapping man-o’-war’s-man sat near the door, his jacket 
thrown open and his great chest bared, and when he perceived 
me he was In the act of proposing a catch;’ twas “The Great 20 
Bell o’ Lincoln,” I believe; and he held a brimming cup of 
bumbo in his hand. In his surprise he set it aw ‘kwardly down 
again, thereby spilling full half of it. “ Avast,” says he, with 
an oath, “what’s this come among us?” and he looked me 
over wath a comical eye. ““A d— Ri provincial,” he went on 2s 
scornfully, “but a gentleman’s son, or Jack Ball’s a liar.” 
Whereupon his companions rose from their seats and crowded 
round me. More than one reeled against me. And though I 
was somewhat awed by the strangeness of that dark, ill- 
smelling room, and by the rough company in which I found 30 
myself, I held my ground, and spoke up as strongly as I 
might. 

“Weld, the butcher’s apprentice, bids me say he will fight 
any man among you single-handed.” 

“So, ho, my little gamecock, my little schooner with a 35 
swivel,” said he who had called himself Jack Ball, ‘“‘and where 
can this valiant butcher be found?” 


24 RICHARD CARVEL 


‘He waits in the street,’ J answered more boldly. 

“Split me fore and aft if he waits long,” said Jack, draining 
the rest of his rum. And picking me up as easily as did Weld 
he rushed out of the door, and after him as many of his mates 

sas could walk or stagger thither. 

In the meantime the news had got abroad im the street that 
the butcher’s apprentice was to fight one of the Hawk’s men, 
and when I emerged from the tavern the crowd had doubled, 
and people were running hither in all haste from both direc- 

retions. But that fight was never to be. Big Jack Ball had 
scarce set me down and shouted a loud defiance, shaking his 
fist at Weld, who stood out opposite, when a soldierly man on 
a great horse turned the corner and wheeled between the com- 
batants. I knew at a glance it was Captain Clapsaddle, and 

rs guiltily wished myself at the Governor’s. The townspeople 
knew him likewise, and many were slinking away even before 
he spoke, as his charger stood pawing the ground. 

What’ s this I hear, you villain,” said he to Weld, in his 
deep, ringing voice, “that you have not only provoked a row 

20 with one of the King’s sailors, but have dared send a child 
into that tavern with your fool’s message?” 

Weld was awkward and sullen enough, and no words came 
to him. 

“Your tongue, you sot, ’* the captain went on, drawing his 

25 sword in his anger, “‘is it true you have made use of a gen- 
tleman’s son for your low purposes?” 

But Weld was still silent, and not a sound came from either 
side until old Robbins spoke up. 

“There are many here can say I warned him, your honour,” 

30 he said. 

“Warned him!” cried the captain. ‘Mr. Carvel has just 
given you twenty pounds for your wife, and you warned 
him!’ 

Robbins said no more; and the butcher’s apprentice, hang- 

3s ing his head, as well he might before the captain, I was much 
moved to pity for him, seeing that my forwardness had in 
some sense led him on. 


CAUGHT BY THE TIDE 25 


“*Twas in truth my fault, captain,” I cried out. The 
captain looked at me, and said nothing. After that the 
butcher made bold to take up his man’s defence. 

“Master Carvel was indeed somewhat to blame, sir,” said 
he, “and Weld is in liquor.” 5 
“And I'll have him to pay for his drunkenness,” said Cap- 

tain Clapsaddle, hotly. ‘Get to your homes,” he criea. ‘Ye 
are a lot of idle hounds, who would make liberty the excuse 
for riot.””, He waved his sword at the pack of them, and they 
scattered like sheep until none but Weld was left. “And as 10 
for you, Weld,” he continued, “‘you’ll rue this pretty business, 
or Daniel Clapsaddle never punished a cut-throat.’ And 
turning to Jack Ball, he bade him lift me to the saddle, and 
so I rode with him to the Governor’s without a word; for I 
knew better than to talk when he was in that mood. 15 

The captain was made to tarry and sup with his Excellency 
and my grandfather, and | sat perforce a fourth at the table, 
scarce daring to conjecture as to the outcome of my escapade. 
But as luck would have it, the Governor had been that day in 
such worry and perplexity, and my grandfather also, that my 20 
absence had passed unnoticed. Nor did my good friend the 
captain utter'a word to them of what he knew. But after- 
wards he called me to him and set me upon his knee. How 
big, and kind, and strong he was, and how [I loved his bluff 
soldier’s face and blunt ways. And when at last he spoke, his 25 
words burnt deep in my memory, so that even now I can 
repeat them. 

“Richard,” he said, “I perceive you are like your father. I 
love your spirit greatly, but you have been overrash to-day. 
Remember this, lad, that you are a gentleman, the son of the 30 
bravest and truest gentleman I have ever known, save one; 
and he is destined to high things.” I know now that he 
spoke of Colonel Washington. “And that your mother,’— 
here his voice trembled,—* your mother was a lady, every inch 
of her, and too good for this world. Remember, and seek no 35 
company, therefore, beyond that circle in which you were 
born. Fear not to be kind and generous, as I know you ever 


26 RICHARD CARVEL 


will be, but choose not intimates from the tavern. > Here the 
captain cleared his throat, and seemed to seek for words. “‘I 
fear there are times coming, my lad,” he went on presently, 
‘when every man must choose his side, and stand arrayed in 
s his own colours. It is not for me to shape your way of think- 
ing. Decide in your own mind that which is right, and when 
you have so decided,”—he drew his sword, as was his habit 
when greatly moved, and placed his broad hand upon my 
head,—*‘ know then that God is with you, and swerve not 
10 from thy course the width of this blade for any man.’ 

We sat upon a little bench in the Governor’s garden, in 
front of us the wide Severn merging into the bay, and glowing 
like molten gold in the setting sun. And I was thrilled with 
a strange reverence such as I have sometimes since felt in 

rs the presence of heroes, 


CHARLIE Realy. 


GRAFTON WOULD HEAL AN OLD BREACH 


Doctor HIiLuiarp, my grandfather’s chaplain, was as holy 
a man as ever wore a gown, but I can remember none of his 
discourses which moved me as much by half as those simple 
words Captain Clapsaddle had used. The worthy doctor, who 
had baptized both my mother and father, died suddenly at 5 
Carvel Hall the spring following, of a cold contracted while 
visiting a poor man who dwelt across the river. He would 
have lacked but three years of fourscore come Whitsuntide. 
He was universally loved and respected in that district where 
he had lived so long and ably, by rich and poor alike, and 10 
those of many creeds saw him to his last resting-place. Mr. 
Carroll, of Carrollton, who was an ardent Catholic, stood 
bareheaded beside the grave. 

Doctor Hilliard was indeed a beacon in a time when his pro- 
fession among us was all but darkness, and when many of the 15 
scandals of the community might be laid at the door of those 
whose duty it was to prevent them. The fault lay without 
doubt in his Lordship’s charter, which gave to the parish- 
ioners no voice in the choosing of their pastors. This matter 
was left to Lord Baltimore’s whim. Hence it was that he zo 
sent among us so many fox-hunting and gaming parsons who 
read the service ill and preached drowsy and illiterate ser- 
mons. Gaming and fox-hunting, did I say? These are but 
charitable words to cover the real characters of those imposters 
in holy orders, whose doings would often bring the blush of 25 
shame to your cheeks. Nay, I have seen a clergyman drunk in 
the pulpit, and even in those freer days their laxity and 
immorality were such that many flocked to hear the parsons 
of the Methodists and Lutherans, whose simple and eloquent 


27 


i Hise RICHARD CARVEL | 


words and simpler lives were worthy of their cloth. Small 
wonder was it, when every strolling adventurer and soldier 
out of employment took orders and found favour in his Lord-' 
ship’s eyes, and were given the fattest livings in place of 

s worthier men, that the Established Church fell somewhat into 
disrepute. Far be it from me to say that there were not good 
men and true in that Church, but the wag who writ this verse, 
which became a common saying in Maryland, was not far 
wrong for the great body of them:— 


10 “Who is a monster of the first renown? 
A lettered sot, a drunkard in a gown.” 


My grandfather did not replace Dr. Hilliard at the Hall, 
afterwards saying the prayers himself. The doctor had been 
my tutor, and in spite of my waywardness and lack of love for 

rs the classics had taught me no little Latin and Greek, and early 
instilled into my mind those principles necessary for the soul’s - 
salvation. I have often thought with regret on the pranks | 
played him. More than once at lesson-time have I gone off - 
with Hugo and young Harvey for a rabbit hunt, stealing two 
20 dogs from ‘the pack, and thus committing a double offence. 
You may be sure I was well thrashed by Mr. Carvel, who 
thought the more of the latter misdoing, though obliged to 
emphasize the former. The doctor would never raise his hand 
against me. His study, where I recited my daily tasks, was 
25 that small sunny room on the water side of the east wing; and 
I well recall him as he sat behind his desk of a morning after 
prayers, his horn spectacles perched on his high nose and his 
quill over his ear, and his ink-powder and pewter stand beside 
him. His face would grow more serious as | scanned my Virgil 
30 in a faltering voice, and as he descanted on a passage my eye 
would wander out over the green trees and fields to the glisten- 
ing water. What cared I for ‘““Arma virumque” at such a 
time? I was watching Nebo afishing beyond the point, and 
as he waded ashore the burden on his shoulders had a much 
35 Keener interest for me than that A‘neas carried out of Troy. 





GRAFTON WOULD HEAL AN OLD BREACH 29 


My Uncle Grafton came to Dr. Hilliard’s funeral, choosing 
this opportunity to become reconciled to my grandfather, who 
he feared had not much longer to live. Albeit Mr. Carvel 
was as stout and hale as ever. None of the mourners at the 
doctor’s grave showed more sorrow than did Grafton. As 
thousand remembrances of the good old man returned to him, 
and J heard him telling Mr. Carroll and some other gentlemen, 
with much emotion, how he had loved his reverend preceptor, 
from whom he had learned nothing but what was good. ‘‘How 
fortunate are you, Richard,” he once said, “‘to have had such a za 
spiritual and intellectual teacher in your youth. Would that 
Philip might have learned from such a one. And I[ trust you 
can say, my lad, that you have made the best of your advan- 
tages, though I fear you are of a wild nature, as your father 
was before you.” And my uncle sighed and crossed his hands rs 

behind his back. “’lis perhaps better that poor John is in 
his grave,” he said. Grafton had a word and a smile for 
everyone about the old place, but little else, being, as he said, 
but a younger son and a poor man. I was near to forgetting 
the shilling he gave Scipio. ~“lwas not so unostentatiously 20 
done but that Mr. Carvel and [ marked it. And afterwards I 
made Scipio give me the coin, replacing it with another, and 
flung it as far into the river as ever I could throw. 

As was but proper to show his sorrow at the death of the 
old chaplain he had loved so much, Grafton came to the Hall 2s 
drest entirely in black. He would have had his lady and 
Philip, a lad near my own age, clad likewise in sombre colours. 
But my Aunt Caroline would none of them, holding it to be 
the right of her sex to dress as became its charms. Her silks 
and laces went but ill with the low estate my uncle claimed 30 
for his purse, and Master Philip’s wardrobe was twice the size 
of mine. And the family travelled in a coach as grand as 
Mr. Carvel’s own, with panels wreathed in flowers and a foot- 
man and outrider in livery, from which my aunt descended 
like a duchess. She embraced my grandfather with much 35 
warmth, and kissed me effusively on both cheeks. 

“And this is dear Richard?” she cried. “Philip, come at 


30 RICHARD CARVEL | 


once and greet your cousin. He has not the look of the Car- 
vels,”’ she continued volubly, ‘but more resembles his mother, | 
as I recall her.” 

“Indeed, madam,” my grandfather answered somewhat tes- 

stily, “he has the Carvel nose and mouth, though his chin 1 is. 
more pronounced. He has Elizabeth’s eyes. 

But my aunt was a woman who flew from one subject to” 
another, and she had already ceased to think of me. She was” 
in the hall. ‘“‘The dear old home!” she cries, though she had ~ 

ro been in it but once before, regarding lovingly each object as | 
her eye rested upon it, nay, caressingly, when she came to the 
great punch-bowl and the carved mahogany dresser, and the 
Peter Lely over the broad fireplace. ‘“‘What memories they” 
must bring to your mind, my dear,” she remarks to her hus-_ 

1s band. “’ Tis cruel, as I once said to dear papa, that we cannot 
always live under the old rafters we loved so well as children.” 
And the good lady brushes away a tear with her embroidered 
pocket-napkin. Tears that will come in spite of us all. But 
she brightens instantly and smiles at the line of servants drawn 

20up to welcome them. “This is Scipio, my son, who was with 
your grandfather when your father was born, and before.” 
Master Philip nods graciously in response to Scipio’ s delighted 
bow. “And Harvey,” my aunt rattles on. “Have you any 
new mares to surprise us with this year, Harvey!” oe 

25 not being as overcome with Mrs. Grafton’s condescension as 
was proper, she turns again to Mr. Carvel. 

“‘Ah, father, I see you are in sore need of a woman’s baad] 
about the old house. What a difference a touch makes, to be 
sure.” And she takes off her gloves and attacks the morning 

3o room, setting an ornament here and another there, and draw- 
ing back for the effect. ‘Such a bachelor’s hall as you are 
keeping!’ 

“We still have Willis, Caroline,’ remonstrates my grand= 
father, gravely. “I have no fault to find with her housekeep- 

35 ing.” ; f 

“Of course not, father; men never notice,” Aunt Caroline 

replies in an aggrieved tone. And when Willis herself comes 









GRAFTON WOULD HEAL AN OLD BREACH 31 


in, auguring no good from this visit, my aunt gives her the tips 
of her fingers. And I imagine I see a spark fly between them. 

As for Grafton, he was more than willing to let bygones be 
bygones between his father and himself. Aunt Caroline said 
with feeling that Dr. Hilliard’s death was a blessing, after 5 
all, since it brought a long-separated father and son together 
once more. Grafton had been misjudged and ill-used, and he 
called Heaven to witness that the quarrel had never been of 
his seeking,—a statement which Mr. Carvel was at no pains 
to prove perjury. How attentive was Mr. Grafton to his 10 
father’s every want. He read his Gazette to him of a Thurs- 
day, though the old gentleman’s eyes are as good as ever. If 
Mr. Carvel walks out of an evening, Grafton’s arm is ever 
ready, and my uncle and his worthy lady are eager to take a 
hand at cards before supper. “Philip, my dear,” says my 1s 
aunt, “‘thy grandfather’s slippers,” or, ‘Philip, my love, thy 
grandfather’s hat and cane.” But it is plain that Master 
Philip has not been brought up to wait on his elders. He is 
curled with a novel in his grandfather’s easy chair by the 
window. “There is Dio, mamma, who has naught to do but 20 
serve grandpapa,” says he, and gives a pull at the cord over 
his head which rings the bell about the servants’ ears in the 
hall below. And Dio, the whites of his eyes showing, comes 
running into the room. 

— “Tt 1s nothing, Diomedes,” says Mr. Carvel. ‘‘ Master 25 
Philip will fetch what I need.” Master Philip’s papa and 
mamma stare at each other in a surprise mingled with no 
little alarm, Master Philip being to all appearances intent 
upon his book. 

“Philip,” says my grandfather, gently. I had more than 30 
once heard him speak thus, and well knew what was coming. 
“Sir,” replies my cousin, without looking up. ‘Follow me, 
sir,” said Mr. Carvel, in a voice so different that Philip drops 
his book. They went up the stairs together, and what occurred 
there I leave to the imagination. But when next Philip was 35 
bidden to do an errand for Mr. Carvel my grandfather said 
quietly: “‘I prefer that Richard should go, Caroline.” And 





32 RICHARD CARVEL : 


though my aunt and uncle, much mortified, begged him to- 
give Philip another chance, he would never permit it. 

Nevertheless, a great effort was made to restore Philip to 
his grandfather’s good graces. At breakfast one morning, 

s after my aunt had poured Mr. Carvel’s tea and made her 
customary compliment to the blue and gold breakfast china, — 
my Uncle Grafton spoke up. 

“Now that Dr. Hilliard is gone, father, what do you pur-_ 
pose concerning Richard’s schooling?” 4 

ro ‘“‘He shall go to King William’s school in the autumn,” | 
Mr. Carvel replied. 

“In the autumn!” cried my uncle. “I do not give Philip | 
even the short holiday of this visit. He has his Greek and 
his Virgil every day.” 

1s ‘And can repeat the best passages,” my aunt chimes in. 
“Philip, my dear, recite that one your father so delights in.” 

However unwilling Master Philip had been to disturb him- 
self for errands, he was nothing loth to show his knowledge, 
and recited glibly enough several lines of his Virgil verbatim; 

20 thereby pleasing his fond parents greatly and my grandfather 
not a little. . 

“1 will add a crown to your savings, Philip,” says his 
father. . . 

“And here is a pistole to spend as you will,” says Mr. Car- 

25 vel, tossing him the piece. 

“Nay, father, | do not encourage the lad to be a spend- 

thrift,” says Grafton, taking the pistole himself. “I wil 
place this token of your appreciation in his strong-box. You 
baer we have a prodigal strain in the family, sir.” An 
30 my uncle looks at me significantly. 

“Let it be as I say, Grafton,” persists Mr. Carvel, who liked 
not to be balked in any matter, and was not overpleased a 
this reference to my father. And he gave Philip forthwit 
another pistole, telling his father to add the first to his saving 

35 if he would 

**And Richard must have his chance,” says my Aunt Car 

line, sweetly, as she rises to leave the room. 












GRAFTON WOULD HEAL AN OLD BREACH 33 


“Ay, here is a crown for you, Richard,” says my uncle, 
smiling. “Let us hear your Latin, which should be purer 
than Philip’s.” 

My grandfather glanced uneasily at me across the table; he 
saw clearly the trick Grafton had played me, I think. But for 5 
once | was equal to my uncle, and haply remembered a line 
Dr. Hilliard had expounded, which fitted the present case mar- 
vellously well. With little ceremony I tossed back the crown, 
and slowly repeated those words used to warn the Trojans 
against accepting the Grecian horse:— 10 

“Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes.” 

“Eegad,” cried Mr. Carvel, slapping his knee, “the lad hath 
beaten you on your own ground, Grafton.” And he laughed 
as my grandfather only could laugh, until the dishes rattled 
on the table. But my uncle thought it no matter for jesting. 15 
_ Philtp was also well versed in politics for a lad of his age, 
and could discuss glibly the right of Parliament to tax the 
colonies. He denounced the seditious doings in Annapolis and 
Boston Town with an air of easy familiarity, for Philip had 
the memory of a parrot, and ’twas easy to perceive whence his 20 
knowledge sprang. But when my fine master spoke dispar- 
agingly of the tradesmen as at the bottom of the trouble, my 
grandfather’s patience came to an end. 

_ “And what think you lies beneath the wealth and power of 
England, Philip?” he asked. 25 
;. Her nobility, sir, and the riches she draws from her colo- 

nies,” retorts Master Philip, readily enough. 

“Not so,” Mr. Carvel said gravely. “She owes her great- 
ness to her merchants, or tradesmen, as you choose to call 
them. And commerce must be at the backbone of every 30 
great nation. Tradesmen!’ exclaimed my _ grandfather. 
“Where would any of us be were it not for trade? We sell 
our tobacco and our wheat, and get money in return. And 
your father makes a deal here and a deal there, and so gets _ 
tich in spite of his pittance.’ 35 

My Uncle Grafton raised his hand to protest, but Mr. Car- 
vel continued :-— 





34 RICHARD CARVEL 


“T know you, Grafton, I know you. When a lad it was 
your habit to lay aside the money I gave you, and so pretend 
you had none. 

“And ’twas well I learned then to be careful,” said my 

s uncle, losing for the instant his control, “for you loved the 
spendthrift best, and I should be but a beggar now without 
my wisdom.” 

“T loved not John’s carelessness with money, but other 
qualities in him which you lacked,” answered Mr. Carvel. 

ro Grafton shot a swift glance at me; and so much of malice 
and of hatred was conveyed in that look that with a sense of 
prophecy I shuddered to think that some day I should have 
to cope with such craft. For he detested me threefold, and 
combined the hate he bore my dead father and mother with 

rs the ill-will he bore me for standing in his way and Philip’s 
with my grandfather’s property. But so deftly could he hide 
his feelings that he was smiling again instantly. To see once, 
however, the white belly of the shark flash on the surface of 
the blue water is sufficient. 

20 ‘I beg of you not to jest of me before the lads, father,” 
said Grafton. 

“God knows there was little jest in what I said,” replied 
Mr. Carvel, soberly, “and I care not who hears it. Your own 
son will one day know you well enough, if he does not now. 

25 Do not imagine, because I am old, that | am grown so foolish 
as to believe that a black sheep can become white save by 
dye. And oh will never deceive such as me. And Philip, 
the shrewd old gentleman went on, turning to my cousin, “do 
not let thy father or any other make thee believe there cannot 

30 be two sides to every question. I recognize in your arguments 
that which smacks of his tongue, despite what he says of 
your reading the public prints and of forming your own 
opinions. And do not condemn the Whigs, many of whom 
are worthy men and true, because they quarrel with what they 

3s deem an unjust method of taxation.’ 

Grafton had given many of the old servants cause to remem- 
ber him. Harvey in particular, who had come from England 


GRAFTON WOULD HEAL AN OLD BREACH 35 


early in the century with my grandfather, spoke with bitter- 
ness of him. On the subject of my uncle, the old coachman’s 
taciturnity gave way to torrents of reproach. “Beware of 
him as has no use for horses, Master Richard,” he would say; 
for this trait in Grafton in Harvey’s mind lay at the bottom 5 
of all others. At my uncle’s approach he would retire into 
his shell like an oyster, nor could he be got to utter more than 
a monosyllable in his presence. Harvey’s face would twitch, 
and his fingers clench of themselves as he touched his cap. 
And with my Aunt Caroline he was the same. He vouchsafed 10 
but a curt reply to all her questions, nor did her raptures over 
the stud soften him in the least. She would come tripping 
into the stable yard, daintily holding up her skirts, and crying, 
“Oh, Harvey, I have heard so much of Tanglefoot. I must 
see him before I go.” ‘Tanglefoot is led out begrudgingly rs 
enough, and Aunt Caroline goes over his points, missing the 
greater part of them, and remarking on the depth of chest, 
which is nothing notable in Tanglefoot. Harvey winks slyly 
at me the while, and never so much as offers a word of correc- 
tion. “You must take Philip to ride, Richard, my dear,” says 20 
my aunt. “His father was never as fond of it as I could have 
wished. I hold that every gentleman should ride to hounds.” 
“Humph!” grunts Harvey, when she is gone to the house, 
“Master Philip to hunt, indeed! Foxes to hunt foxes!’ And 
he gives vent to a dry laugh over his joke, in which I cannot 25 
but join. “Horsemen grows. Eh, Master Richard? There 
was Captain Jack, who jumped from the cradle into the 
saddle, and I never once seen a horse get the better o’ him. 
And that’s God’s truth.” And he smooths out Tanglefoot’s 
mane, adding reflectively, “And you be just like him. But 30 
there was scarce a horse in the stables what wouldn’t lay back 
his ears at Mr. Grafton, and small blame to ’em, say I. He 
never dared go near ’em. Oh, Master Philip comes by it 
honestly enough. She thinks old Harvey don’t know a thor- 
_oughbred when he sees one, sir. But Mrs. Grafton’s no thor- 35 
_oughbred; I tell ’ee that, though I’m saying nothing as to her 
_ points, mark ye. I’ve seen her sort in the old country, and 


i 


Wwe 
b. 


36 RICHARD CARVEL 


I’ve seen ’em here, and it’s the same the world over, in Injy 
and Chiny, too. Fine trappings don’t make the horse, and 
they don’t take thoroughbreds from a grocer’s cart. A Phila- 
delphy grocer,” sniffs this old aristocrat. “I’d knowed her 
s father was a grocer had I seen her in Pall Mall with a Royal 
Highness, by her gait, | may say. Thy mother was a thorough- 
bred, Master Richard, and I'll tell *ee another,” he goes on 
with a chuckle, ‘‘ Mistress Dorothy Manners is such another; 
you don’t mistake ’em with their high heads and patreeshan 
ro ways, though her father be one of them accidents as will occur 
in every stock. She’s one to tame, sir, and I don’t envy no 
young gentleman the task. But this I knows,” says Harvey, 
not heeding my red cheeks, “‘that Master Philip, with all his 
satin smallclothes, will never do it.” 
zs Indeed, it was no secret that my Aunt Caroline had been a 
Miss Flaven, of Philadelphia, though she would have had the 
fashion of our province to believe that she belonged to the 
Governor’s set there; and she spoke in terms of easy familiar- 
ity of the first families of her native city, deceiving no one 
20 save herself, poor lady. How fondly do we believe, with the 
ostrich, that our body is hidden when our head is tucked 
under our wing! Not a visitor in Philadelphia but knew 
Terence Flaven, Mrs. Grafton Carvel’s father, who not many 
years since sold tea and spices and soap and glazed teapots 
25 over his own counter, and still advertised his cargoes in the 
public prints. He was a broad and charitable-minded man 
enough, and unassuming, but gave way at last to the pressure 
brought upon him by his wife and daughter, and bought a 
mansion. [erence Flaven never could be got to stay there 
gosave to sleep, and preferred to spend his time in his shop, 
which was grown greatly, chatting with his customers, and 
bowing the ‘ladies to their chariots. I need hardly say that 
this worthy man was on far better terms than his family with 
those personages whose society they strove so hard to attain. 
35 <Atthe time of Miss Flaven’s marriage to my uncle ‘twas a 
piece of gossip in every mouth that he had taken her for her 
dower, which was not inconsiderable; though to hear Mr. and 


GRAFTON WOULD HEAL AN OLD BREACH 37 


Mrs. Grafton talk they knew not whence the next month’s 
provender was to come. They went to live in Kent County, 
as I] have said, spending some winters in Philadelphia, where 
Mr. Grafton was thought to have interests, though it never 
could be discovered what his investments were. On hearing 5 
of his marriage, which took place shortly before my father’s, 
Mr. Carvel expressed neither displeasure nor surprise. But 
he would not hear of my mother’s request to settle a portion 
upon his younger son. 

“He has the Kent estate, Bess,” said he, “‘which 1s by far zo 
too good for him. Never doubt but that the rogue can feather 
his own nest far better than can I, as indeed he hath already 
done. And by the Lord,” cried Mr. Carvel, bringing his fist 
down upon the card-table where they sat, “he shall never get 
another farthing of my money while I live, nor afterwards, if 15 
I can help it! I would rather give it over to Mr. Carroll to 
found a nunnery.” 

And so that matter ended, for Mr. Carvel could not be 
moved from a purpose he had once made. Nor would he make 
any advances whatsoever to Grafton, or receive those hints 20 
which my uncle was forever dropping, until at length he 
begged to be allowed to come to Dr. Hilliard’s funeral, a re- 
quest my grandfather could not in decency refuse. *Iwas a 
pathetic letter in truth, and served its purpose well, though 


‘it was not as dust in the old gentleman’s eyes. He called me 2s 
‘into his bedroom and told me that my Uncle Grafton was 


i 
| 
, 


coming at last. And seeing that I said nothing thereto, he 
gave me a queer look and bade me treat them as civilly as I] 
knew how. “I well know thy temper, Richard,” said he, “‘and 
I fear ’twill bring thee trouble enough in life. Try to control 30 
it, my lad; take an old man’s advice and try to control it.” 
He was in one of his gentler moods, and passed his arm about 
me, and together we stood looking silently through the square 
panes out into the rain, at the ducks paddling in the puddles 
until the darkness hid them. 35 
_ And God knows, lad that I was, I tried to be civil to them. 
But my tongue rebelled at the very sight of my uncle (’twas 


ist 


38 RICHARD CARVEL 


bred into me, I suppose), and his fairest words seemed to me 
to contain a hidden sting. Once, when he spoke in his innu- 
endo of my father, I ran from the room to restrain some act 
of violence; I know not what I should have done. And Wil- 
s lis found me in the deserted study of the doctor, where my 
hot tears had stained the flowered paper on the wall. She did 
her best to calm me, good soul, though she had her own 
troubles with my Lady Caroline to think about at the time. 
I had one experience with Master Philip before our visitors 
1o betook themselves back to Kent, which, unfortunate as it was, 
I cannot but relate here. My cousin would enter into none of 
those rough amusements in which I passed my time, for fear, 
I took it, of spoiling his fine broadcloths or of losing a gold 
buckle. He never could be got to wrestle, though I challenged 
rs him more than once. And he was a well-built lad, and might, 
with a little practice, have become skilled in that sport. He 
laughed at the homespun I wore about the farm, saying it was 
no costume for a gentleman’s son, and begged me sneeringly to 
don leather breeches. He would have none of the company of 
20 those lads with whom [ found pleasure, young Harvey, and 
Willis’s son, who was being trained as Mr. Starkie’s assistant. 
Nor indeed did I disdain to join in a game with Hugo, who 
had been given to me, and other negro lads. Philip saw no 
sport in a wrestle or a fight between two of the boys from the 
25 quarters, and marvelled that I could lower myself to bet with 
Harvey the younger. He took not a spark of interest in the 
gaming cocks we raised together to compete at the local con- 
tests and at the fair, and knew not a gaff from a cockspur. 
Being one day at my wits’ end to amuse my cousin, I proposed 
30 to him a game of quoits on the green beside the spring-house, 
and thither we repaired, followed by Hugo, and young Harvey 
come to look on. Master Philip, not casting as well as he 

might, cries out suddenly to Hugo:— 
“Begone, you black dog! What business have you here 

35 watching a game between gentlemen?” 
e is my servant, cousin,” I said quietly, ‘ cand sno dog, if 

you please. And he is under my orders, not yours.” 


GRAFTON WOULD HEAL AN OLD BREACH 39 


But Philip, having scarcely scored a point, was in a rage. 
“And [’ll not have him here,” he shouted, giving poor Hugo a 
cuff which sent him stumbling over the stake. And turning 
to me, continued insolently: “Ever since we came here I have 
marked your manner toward us, as though my father had no ; 
right in my grandfather’s house.”’ 

Then could I no longer contain myself. I heard young 
Harvey laugh, and remark: “’Tis all up with Master Philip 
now.” But Philip, whatever else he may have been, was no 
coward, and had squared off to face me by the time I had run 10 
the distance between the stakes. He was heavier than I, 
though not so tall; and he parried my first blow and my 
second, and many more; having lively work of it, however, for 
I hit him as often as I was able. To speak truth, I had not 
looked for such resistance, and seeing that I could not knock 7; 
him down out of hand, I grew more cool and began to study 
what I was doing. 

“Take off your macaroni coat,” said I. “I have no wish to 
ruin your clothes.” i 

But he only jeered in return: ‘‘Take off thy wool-sack.”’ 29 
And Hugo, getting to his feet, cried out to me not to hurt 
Marse Philip, that he had meant no harm. But this only 
enraged Philip the more, and he swore a round oath at Hugo 
and another at me, and.dealt a vicious blow at my stomach, 
whereat Harvey called out to him to fight fair. He was more 2; 
skilful at the science of boxing than J, though I was the better 
fighter, having, I am sorry to say, fought but too often before. 
And presently, when I had closed one of his eyes, his skill went 
all to pieces, and he made a mad rush at me. As he went by 
I struck Him so hard that he fell heavily and lay motion- 30 
less. 

Young Harvey ran into the spring-house and filled his hat 
as I bent over my cousin. I unbuttoned his waistcoat and felt 
his heart, and rejoiced to find it beating; we poured cold water 
over his face and wrists. By then, Hugo, who was badly ;, 
frightened, had told the news in the house, and I saw my 

‘Aunt Caroline come running over the green as fast as her 


i 
Laas 


i 


40 RICHARD CARVEL 


tight stays would permit, crying out that I had killed her boy, 
her dear Philip. And after her came my Uncle Grafton and 
my grandfather, with all the servants who had been in hearing. 
I was near to crying myself at the thought that I should 
sgrieve my grandfather. And my aunt, as she knelt over 
Philip, pushed me away, and bade me not touch him. But my 
cousin opened one of his eyes, and raised his hand to his head. 
“Thank Heaven he is not killed!’ exclaims Aunt Caroline, 
fervently. 

ro ** Thank God, indeed!” echoes my uncle, and gives me a look 
as much as to say that I am not to be thanked forit. “I have 
often warned you, sir,” he says to Mr. Carvel, “‘that we do not 
inherit from stocks and stones. And so much has come of 
our charity.” 

13 I knew, lad that I was, that he spoke of my mother; and 
my blood boiled within me. . 

“Have a care, sir, with your veiled insults,” I cried, “or I 
will serve you as I have served your son.” 
Grafton threw up his hands. 

20 ‘‘What have we harboured, father?” says he. But Mr. 
Carvel seized him by the shoulder. “ Peace, Grafton, before 
the servants,” he said, “and cease thy crying, Caroline. The 
lad is not hurt.”? And being a tall man, six feet in his stock- 
ings, and strong despite his age, he raised Philip from the 

25 grass, and sternly bade him walk to the house, which he did, 
leaning on his mother’s arm. “As éor you, Richard,” my 
grandfather went on, “you will go into my study.” 

Into his study I went, where presently he came also, and 
I told him the affair in as few words as I might. And he, 

30 knowing my hatred of falsehood, questioned me not at all, but 
paced to and fro, I following him with my eyes, and truly 
sorry that I had given him pain. And finally he dismissed 
me, bidding me make it up with my cousin, which I was 
nothing loth to do. What he said to Philip and his father I 

35 know not. That evening we shook hands, though Philip’s 
face was. much swollen, and my uncle smiled, and was even 
pleasanter than before, saying that boys would be boys. But 


GRAFTON WOULD HEAL AN OLD BREACH 41 


I think my Aunt Caroline could never wholly hide the malice 
she bore me for what I had done that day. 

When at last the visitors were gone, every face on the plan- 
tation wore a brighter look. Harvey said: “God bless their 
backs, which is the only part I ever care to see of theirs 
honours.” And Willis gave us a supper fit for a king. Mr. 
Lloyd and his lady were with us, and Mr. Carvel told ‘his old 
stories of the time of the First George, many of which I can 
even now repeat: how he and two other collegians fought 
half a dozen Mohocks in Norfolk Street, and fairly beat them; 10 
and how he discovered by chance a Jacobite refugee in Green- 
wich, and what came of it; nor did he forget that oft-told 
episode with Dean Swift. ‘And these he rehearsed in such 
merry spirit and new guise that we scarce recognized them, 
and Colonel Lloyd so- choked with laughter that more than; 
once he had to be hit between the shoulders. 


CHAPTER V 


“IF LADIES BE BUT YOUNG AND FAIR” 


No boyhood could have been happier than mine, and through- 
out it, ever present with me, were a shadow and a light. Ihe 
shadow was my Uncle Grafton. I know not what strange in- 
tuition of the child made me think of him so constantly after 

5 that visit he paid us, but often | would wake from my sleep 
with his name upon my lips, and a dread at my heart. The 
light—need I say?—was Miss Dorothy Manners. Little Miss 
Dolly was often at the Hall after that happy week we spent 
together; and her home, Wilmot House, was scarce three 

1o miles across wood and field by our plantation roads. I was 
a stout little fellow enough, and before I was twelve I had 
learned to follow to hounds my grandfather’s guests on my 
pony; and Mr. Lloyd and Mr. Carvel when they shot on the 
duck points. Ay, and what may surprise you, my dears, I was 

1s given a weak little toddy off the noggin at night, while the 
gentlemen stretched their limbs before the fire, or played 
at whist or loo. Mr. Carvel would have no milksop, so 
he said. But he early impressed upon me that moderation 
was the mark of a true man, even as excess was that of a 

20 weak one. | 

And so it was no wonder that I frequently found my way to 
Wilmot House alone. There I often stayed the whole day 
long, romping with Dolly at games of our own invention, and 
many the time I was sent home after dark by Mrs. Man- 

2sners with Jim, the groom. About once in the week Mr. and 
Mrs. Manners would bring Dorothy over for dinner or tea at 
the Hall. She grew quickly—so quickly that I scarce real- 
ized—into a tall slip of a girl, who could be wilful and cruel, 
laughing or forgiving, shy or impudent, in a breath. She had 


42 r 


“IF LADIES BE BUT YOUNG AND FAIR” 43 


as many moods as the sea. | have heard her entertain Mr. 
Lloyd and Mr. Bordley and the ladies, and my grandfather, by 
the hour, while I sat by silent and miserable, but proud of her 
all the same. Boylike, I had grown to think of her as my pos- 
session, tho’ she gave me no reason whatever. I believe I had 5 
held my hand over fire for her, at a word. And, indeed, I did 
many of her biddings to make me wonder, now, that I was ‘not 
killed. It used to please her, [vie too, tosee me go the round 
of the windmill, tho’ she would cry out after I left the ground. 
And once, when it was turning faster than common and Ivie ro 
not there to prevent, I near lost my hold at the top, and was 
thrown at the bottom with such force that I lay stunned for a 
full minute. I opened my eyes to find her bending over me 
with such a look of fright and remorse upon her face as 

I shall never forget. Again, walking out on the bowsprit of rs 
the Oriole while she stood watching me from the dock, I lost 
my balance and fell into the water. On another occasion I 
fought Will Fotheringay, whose parents had come for a visit, 
because he dared say he would marry her. 

“She is to marry an earl,’ I cried, tho’ [ had thrashed 20 
another lad for saying so. “ Mr. Manners is to take her home 
when she is grown, to marry her to an earl.” 

“At least she will not marry you, Master Richard,” sneered 
Will. And then I hit him. 

Indeed, even at that early day the girl’s beauty was enough 25 
to make her talked about. And that foolish little fop, her 
father, had more than once declared before a company in our 
dining room that it was high time another title came into his 
family, and that he meant to take Dolly abroad when she was 
sixteen. Lad that I was, I would mark with pain the blush 30 
on Mrs. Manners’s cheek, and clinch my fists as she tried to 
pass this off as a joke of her husband’s. But Dolly, who sat 
next me at a side table, would make a wry little face at my 
anery one. 

EY ou shall call me ‘my lady,’ Richard. And sometimes, if 35 
you are good, you shall ride inside my coroneted coach when 

' you come home.” 


4 


44 RICHARD CARVEL 


Ah, that was the worst of it! The vixen was conscious of 
her beauty. But her airs were so natural that young and old 
bowed before her. Nothing but worship had she had from the 
cradle. I would that Mr. Peale had painted her in her girl- 

s hood as a type of our Maryland lady of quality. Harvey was 
right when he called her a thoroughbred. Her:nose was of 
patrician straightness, and the curves of her mouth came from 
generations of proud ancestors. And she had blue eyes to 
conquer and subdue, with long lashes to hide them under when 

10 she chose, and black hair with blue gloss upon it in the slant- 
ing lights. I believe I loved her best in the riding-habit that 
was the colour of the red holly in our Maryland woods. At 
Christmastide, when we came to the Eastern Shore, we would 
gallop together through miles of country, the farmers and 

1s Servants tipping and staring after her as she laid her silver- 
handled whip upon her pony. She knew not the meaning of 
fear, and would take a fence or a ditch that a man might 
pause at. And so I fell into the habit of leading her the 

easy way round, for dread that she would be hurt. 

20 How those Christmas times of childhood come sweeping 
back on my memory! Often, and without warning, my grand- 
father would say to me: “ Richard, we shall celebrate at the 
Hall this year.” And it rarely turned out that arrangements 
had not been made with the Lloyds and the Bordleys and the 

25 Manners, and other neighbours, to go to the country for the 
holidays. I have no occasion in these pages to mention my 
intimacy with the sons and daughters of those good friends of 
the Carvels’, Colonel Lloyd and Mr. Bordley. Some of them 
are dead now, and the rest can thank God and look back upon 

30 worthy and useful lives. And if any of these, my old play- 
mates, could read this manuscript, perchance they might feel 
a tingle of recollection of Children’s Day, when Maryland was 
a province. We rarely had snow; sometimes a crust upon the 
ground that was melted into paste by the noonday sun, but 

35 more frequently, so it seems to me, a foggy, drizzly Christmas, 
with the fires crackling in salon and lady’s chamber. And — 

_ when my grandfather and the ladies and gentlemen, his guests, 





“IF LADIES BE BUT YOUNG AND FAIR” 45 


came down the curving stairs, there were the broadly smiling 
servants drawn up in the wide hall,—all who could gather 
there,—and the rest on the lawn outside, to wish “Merry 
Chris’mas” to “de quality.” The redemptioners in front, 
headed by Ivie and Jonas Tree, tho’ they had long served s 
their terms, and with them old Harvey and his son; next the 
house blacks and the outside liveries, and then the oldest 
slaves from the quarters. ‘his line reached the door, which 
Scipio would throw open at “‘de quality’s”’ appearance, dis- 
closing the rest of the field servants, in bright-coloured gowns, 
and the little negroes on the green. Then Mr. Carvel would 
make them a little speech of thanks and of good will, and 
white-haired Johnson of the senior quarters, who had been 
with my great-grandfather, would start the carol in a quaver. 
How clear and sweet the melody of those negro voices comes rs 
back to me through the generations! And the picture of the 
hall, loaded with holly and mistletoe even to the great arch 
that spanned it, with the generous bowls of egg-nog and 
punch on the mahogany by the wall! And the ladies our 
guests, in cap and apron, joining in the swelling hymn; ay, 20 
and the men, too. And then, after the breakfast of sweet ham 
and venison, and hot bread and sausage, made under Mrs. 
Willis, and tea and coffee and chocolate steaming in the silver, 
and ale for the gentlemen if they preferred it, came the 
prayers and more carols in the big drawing-room. And then 25 
music in the big house, or perhaps a ride afield to greet the 
neighbours, and fiddling and dancing in the two big quarters, 
Hank’s and Johnson’s, when the tables were cleared after the 
| bountiful feast Mr. Carvel was wont to give them. There was 
| no stint, my dears,—naught but good cheer and praising God 30 
in sheer happiness at Carvel Hall. | 
At night there was always a ball, sometimes at Wilmot 
House, sometimes at Colonel Lloyd’s, or Mr. Bordley’s, and 
sometimes at Carvel Hail, for my grandfather dearly loved 
the company of the young. He himself would lead off ‘the 35 
minuet,—save when once or twice his Excellency Governor 
Sharpe chanced to be present,—and would draw his sword 


ei 


te) 


, 
ik 


46 RICHARD CARVEL 


with the young gallants that the ladies might pass under. 
And I have seen him join merrily in the country dances too, 
to the clapping of hands of the company. That was before 
Dolly and I were let upon the floor. We sat with the other 
s children, our mammies at our sides, in the narrow gallery 
with the tiny rail that ran around the ball-room, where the 
sweet odour of the green myrtleberry candles mixed with 
that of the powder and perfume of the dancers. And when 
the beauty of the evening was led out, Dolly would lean 
ro over the rail, and pout and smile by turns. The mischievous 
little bageage could hardly wait for the conquering years to 
come. 
They came soon enough, alack! The season Dorothy was 
fourteen, we had a ball at the Hall the last day of the year. 
15 When she was that age she had near arrived at her growth, and 
was full as tall as many young ladies of twenty. I had 
cantered with her that morning from Wilmot House to Mr. 
Lloyd’s, and thence to Carvel Hall, where she was to stay 
to dinner. The sun was shining warmly, and after young Har- 
zo vey had taken our horses we strayed through the house, where 
the servants were busy desoneeanes and out into my grand- 
father’s old English flower garden, and took the seat by the 
sundial. I remember that it gave no shadow. We sat silent 
for a while, Dorothy toying with old Knipe, lying at our feet, 
25and humming gayly the burden of a minuet. She had been 
flighty on the ride, with scarce a word to say to me, for the 
prospect of the dance had gone to her head. | 
“Have you a new suit to wear to-night, to see the New 
Year in, Master Sober?” she asked presently, looking up. 
30 ‘1 am to wear a brocade that came out this autumn from 
London, and papa says - look like a duchess when I have 
my grandmother’s pearls.” 
‘Always the ball!” cried I, slapping my boots in a temper. © 
“Is it, then, such a znatter bs importance? I am sure you | 
3s have danced before—at my birthdays in Marlboro’ Street 
and at your own, and Will Fotheringay’ s, and I know not 
how many others.” | 


“IF LADIES BE BUT YOUNG AND FAIR” 47 


“Of course,” replies Dolly, sweetly; “but never with a real 
man. Boys like you and Will and the Lloyds do not count. 
Dr. Courtenay is at Wilmot House, and is coming to-night, 
and he has asked me out. ‘Think of it, Richard. Dr. 
Courtenay!’ 5 

on. plague upon him! He is a fop!’”’ 

“A fop!” exclaimed Dolly, her humour bettering as mine 
went down. ‘‘Oh, no; you are jealous. He is more sought 
after than any gentleman at the assemblies, and Miss Dulany 
vows his steps are ravishing. There’s for you, my lad! He1o0 
may not be able to keep pace with you in the chase, but he 
has writ the most delicate verses ever printed in Maryland, 
and no other man in the colony can turn a compliment with 
his grace. Shall I tell you more? He sat with me for over 
an hour last night, until mamma sent me off to bed, and was 15 
very angry at you because I had engaged to ride with you 
to-da 

“And I suppose you wish you had stayed with him,” I 
flung back, hotly. “He had spun you a score of fine speeches 
and a hundred empty compliments by now.” 20 

“He had been better company than you, sir,”’ she laughed 
provokingly. “I never heard you turn a compliment in your 
life, and you are now seventeen. What headway do you 
expect to make at the assemblies?’ 

“None,” I answered, rather s ar than otherwise. For she 25 
had touched me upon a sore spot. “But if I cannot win a 
woman save by compliments,” I added, flaring up, “‘then may 
I pay a bachelor’s tax!’ 

My lady drew her whip across my knee. 

“You must tell us we are beautiful, Richard,” said she, in 30 
another tone. 

“You have but to look in a pier-glass,” I retorted. ‘And, 
besides, that is not sufficient. You will want some rhyming 
couplet out of a mythology before you are content.’ 

She laughed again. 35 

“Sir,” answered she, ‘“‘but you have wit, if you can but be 
got angry.” 


48 RICHARD CARVEL 


She leaned over the dial’s face, and began to draw the Latin 
numerals with her finger. So arch, withal, that I forgot my 
ill-humour. 

“If you would but agree to stay angry for a day,” she went 

50n, in a low tone, “perhaps—”’ 

“Perhaps?” 

“Perhaps you would be better company,” said Dorothy. 
“You would surely be more entertaining.’ 
“Dorothy, I love you,” I said. 
zo ““To be sure. I know that,” she replied. “I think you 
have said that before.” 

I admitted it sadly, “But I should be a better husband 
than Dr. Courtenay.” 

“Lal” cried she; “I am not thinking of husbands. I 

r5Shall have a good time, sir, I promise you, before I marry. 
And then I should never marry you. You are much too rough, 
and too masterful. And you would require obedience. | 
shall never obey any man. You would be too strict a master, 
sir. | can see it with your dogs and your servants. And 

20 your friends, too. For you thrash any boy who does not agree 
with you. I want no rough squire for a husband. And then, 
you are a Whig. I could never marry a Whig. You behaved 
disgracefully at King William’s School last year. Don’t 
deny it!” 

2g “Deny it!” I cried warmly; “I would as soon deny that 
you are an arrant flirt, Dorothy Manners, and will be a 
worse one.” 

“Yes, I shall have my fling,” said the minx. “I shall be- 
gin to-night, with you for an audience. I shall make the 

30 doctor look to himself. But there is the dressing-bell.” And 
as we went into the house, ee believe my mother is a Whig, 
Richard. All the Brices are.’ | 

“And yet you are a Tory?” 

“T am a loyalist,” says my lady, tossing her head proudly; — 

35 and we are one day to kiss her Majesty’s hand, and tell her © 
so. And if I were the Queen,” she finished in a flash, “I 


would teach you surly gentlemen not to meddle.” 


3) 


“IF LADIES BE BUT YOUNG AND FAIR” 49 


And she swept up the stairs so stately, that Scipio was 
moved to say slyly: ‘‘Dem’s de kind of ladies, Marse Richard, 
I jes dotes t’ wait on!” 

Of the affair at King William’s School I shall tell later. 

We had some dozen guests staying at the Hall for the ball. 5 
At dinner my grandfather and the gentlemen twitted her, and 
laughed heartily at her apt retorts, and even toasted her when 
she was gone. The ladies shook their heads and nudged one 
another, and no doubt each of the mothers had her notion of 
what she would do in Mrs. Manners’s place. But when my 10 
lady came down dressed for the ball in her pink brocade with 
the pearls around her neck, fresh from the hands of Hester and 
those of her own tremulous mammy, Mr. Carvel must needs 
go up to her and hold her at arm’s length in admiration, and 
then kiss her on both her cheeks. Whereat she blushed right 15 
prettily. 

“Bless me!’ says he; “and can this be Richard’s little 
playmate grown? Upon my word, Miss Dolly, you’ll be the 
belle of the ball. Eh, Lloyd? Bless me, bless me, you must 
not mind a kiss from an old man. The young ones may 20 
have their turn after a while.” He laughed as my grandfather 
only could laugh, and turned to me, who had reddened to my 
forehead. “And so, Richard, she has outstripped you, fair 
and square. You are only an awkward lad, and she—why, 
1 faith, in two years she'll be beyond my protection. Come, 25 
Miss Dolly,” says he; “Ill show you the mistletoe, that you 
may beware of it.” 

And he led her off on his arm. “The old year and the new, 
gentlemen!” he cried merrily, as he passed the door, with 
Dolly’s mammy and Hester simpering with pride on the 30 
landing.. 

The company apsrived in coach and saddle, many having 
come so far that they were to stay the night. Young Mr. 
Beall carried his bride on a pillion behind him, her red riding- 
cloak flung over her ball dress. Mr. Bordley and family came 35 
in his barge, Mr. Marmaduke and his wife in coach and four. 
With them was Dr. Courtenay, arrayed in peach-coloured coat 


50 RICHARD CARVEL 


and waistcoat, with black satin breeches and white silk stock- 
ings, and pinchbeck buckles asparkle on his shoes. How I 
envied him as he descended the stairs, stroking his ruffles and 
greeting the company with the indifferent ease that was then 
sthe fashion. I fancied I saw his eyes wander among the 
ladies, and not marking her he crossed over to where I stood 
disconsolate before the fireplace. 
“Why, Richard, my lad,” says he, “you are quite grown 
since | saw you. And the little girl that was your playmate, 
zo—Miss Dolly, I mean,—has outstripped me, egad. She has 
become suddenly une belle demotselle, like a rose that blooms 
in a night.” 
I answered nothing at all. But I had given much to know 
whether my stolid manner disconcerted him. Unconsciously 
15 | sought the bluff face above the chimney, depicted in all its 
ruggedness by the painter of King Charles’s day, and con- 
trasted it with the bundle of finery at my side. Dr. Courtenay 
certainly caught the look. He opened his snuff-box, took a 
pinch, turned on his heel, and sauntered off. 
a0 ‘What did you say, Richard?’ asked Mr. Lloyd, coming 
up to me, laughing, for he had seen the incident. 
“T looked merely at the man of Marston Moor, sir, and said 
nothing.” 
“Faith, ’twas a better answer than if you had used your 
2s tongue, I think,” answered my friend. But he teased me a 
deal that night when Dolly danced with the doctor, and my 
grandfather bade me look to my honours. My young lady 
flung her head higher than ever, and made a minuet as well 
as any dame upon the floor, while i stood very glum at the 
30 thought of the prize slipping from my grasp. Now and then, 
in the midst of a figure, she would shoot me an arch glance, 
as much as to say that her pinions were strong now. But, 
when it came to the country dances my lady comes up to me 
ever so prettily and asks the favour. 
35 lis a monstrous state, indeed, when I have to beg you 
for a reel!”’ says she. 
And so was I made happy. 


CHAPTER VI 


I FIRST SUFFER FOR THE CAUSE 


In the eighteenth century the march of public events was 
much more eagerly followed than now by men and women of 
all stations, and even children. Each citizen was ready, nay, 
forward, in taking an active part in all political movements, 
and the children mimicked their elders. Old William Farris ; 
read his news of a morning before he began the mending of 
his watches, and by evening had so well digested them that 
he was primed for discussion with Pryse, of the opposite per- 
suasion, at the Rose and Crown. Sol Mogg, the sexton of 
St. Anne’s, had his beloved Gazette in his pocket, as he tolled 10 
the church bell of a Thursday, and would hold forth on the 
rights and liberties of man with the carpenter who mended the 
steeple. Mrs. Willard could talk of Grenville and Townshend 
as knowingly as her husband, the rich factor, and Francie 
Willard made many a speech to us younger Sons of Liberty 15 
on the steps of King William’s School. We younger sons, 
indeed, declared bitter war against the mother-country long 
before our conservative old province ever dreamed of seces- 
sion. For Maryland was well pleased with his Lordship’s 
government. 20 

I fear that I got at King William’s School learning of a far 
different sort than pleased my grandfather. In those days the 
school stood upon the Stadt House hill near School Street, not 
having moved to its present larger quarters. Mr. Isaac 
Daaken was then Master, and had under him some eighty 25 
scholars. After all these years, Mr. Daaken stands before me 
a prominent figure of the past in an ill-fitting suit of snuff, 
colour. How weil I recall that schoolroom of a bright morn- 
ing, the sun’s rays shot hither and thither, and split violet, 


Le! 


52 RICHARD CARVEL 


green, and red by the bulging glass panes of the windows, — 
And by a strange irony it so chanced that where the dominie 
sat—and he moved not the whole morning long save to reach — 
for his birches—the crimson ray would often rest on the end — 
sof his long nose, and the word “rum” be passed tittering | 
along the benches. For some men are born to the mill, and © 
others to the mitre, and still others to the sceptre; but Mr. 
Daaken was born to the birch. His long, lanky legs were made 
for striding after culprits, and his arms for caning them. He 
ro taught, among other things, the classics, of course, the Eng- 
lish language grammatically, arithmetic in all its branches, 
bookkeeping in the Italian manner, and the elements of 
algebra, geometry, and trigonometry with their applications — 
to surveying and navigation. He also wrote various sorts of — 
rs hands, fearful and marvellous to the uninitiated, with which 
he was wont to decorate my monthly reports to my grand- 
father. I can shut my eyes and see now that wonderful 
hyperbola in the C in Carvel, which, after travelling around 
the paper, ended in intricate curves and a flourish which 
go surely must have broken the quill. The last day of every 
month would I fetch that scrolled note to Mr. Carvel, and he 
laid it beside his plate until dinner was over. And then, as 
sure as the sun rose that morning, my flogging would come 
before it set. This done with, and another promised next 
2s;month provided Mr. Daaken wrote no better of me, my 
grandfather and I renewed our customary footing of love and — 
companionship. . 
But Mr. Daaken, unwittingly or designedly, taught other 
things than those I have mentioned above. And though I 
zonever once heard a word of politics fail from his lips, his 
school shortly became known to all good Tories as a nursery 
of conspiracy and sedition. There are other ways of teaching 
besides preaching, and of that which the dominie taught best 
he spoke not a word. He was credited, you may well believe, 
3s With calumnies against King George, and once my Uncle 
Grafton and Mr. Dulany were for clapping him in jail, avow- © 
ing that he taught treason to the young. I can account for 


I FIRST SUFFER FOR THE CAUSE 53 


the tone of King William’s School in no other way than to say 
that patriotism was in the very atmosphere, and seemed to 
exude in some mysterious way from Mr. Daaken’s person. 
And most of us became infected with it. 

The dominie lived outside the town, in a lonely little hamlet 5 
on the borders of the Spa. At two of the clock every after- 

- noon he would dive through School Street to the Coffee House, 
where the hostler would have his bony mare saddled and wait- 
ing. Mr. Daaken by no chance ever entered the tavern. I 
recall one bright day in April when I played truant and had ro 
the temerity to go afishing on Spa Creek with Will Fother- 
ingay, the bass being plentiful there. We had royal sport of 
it that morning, and two o’clock came and went with never a 
thought, you may be sure. And presently I get a pull which 
bends my English rod near to double, and in my excitement 75 
plunge waist deep into the water, Will crying out directions 
from the shore, when suddenly the head of Mr. Daaken’s mare 

is thrust through the bushes, followed by Mr. Daaken himself. 
Will stood stock still from fright, and I was for dropping my 
rod and cutting, when I was arrested by the dominie calling ,, 
out:— 

““Have a care, Master Carvel; have a care, sir. You will 
lose him. Play him, sir; let him run a bit.” 

And down he leaps from his horse and into the water after 
me, and together we landed a three-pound bass, thereby ,. 
drenching his snuff-coloured suit. When the big fish lay 
shining in the basket, the dominie smiled grimly at William 
and me as we stood sheepishly by, and without. a word he 
drew his clasp knife and cut a stout switch from the willow 
near, and then and there he gave us such a thrashing as we 3, 
remembered for many a day after. And we both had another 
when we reached home. ; 

“Mr. Carvel,” said Mr. Dulany to my grandfather, “I 
would strongly counsel you to take Richard from that school. 
Pernicious doctrines, sir, are in the air, and like diseases are ue 
early caught by the young. *Iwas but yesterday I saw 
Richard at the head of a rabble of the sons of riff-raff, in 


¥ 


54 RICHARD CARVEL 


Green Street, and their treatment of Mr. Fairbrother hath 
set the whole town by the ears.” 

What Mr. Dulany had said was true. The lads of Mr 
Fairbrother’s school being mostly of the unpopular party. we 

sof King William’s had organized our cohorts and led them on 
to a signal victory. We fell upon the enemy even as they 
were emerging from their stronghold. the schoolhouse, and 
smote them hip and thigh, with the sheriff of Anne Arundel 
County a laughing spectator. Some of the Tories (for such 

ro We were pleased to call them) took refuge behind Mr. Fair- 
brother’s skirts, who shook his cane angrily enough, but with- 
out avail. Others of the Tory brood fought stoutly, calling 
out: ‘God save the King!” and ‘‘ Down with the traitors!” 
On our side Francie Willard fell, and Archie Jennison raised 

tsa lump on my head the size of a goose egg. But we fairly 
beat them, and afterwards must needs attack the Tory 
dominie himself. He cried out lustily to the sheriff and spec- 
tators, of whom there were many by this time, for help, but 
got little but laughter for his efort. Young Lloyd and I 

20 being large lads for our age, fairly pinioned the screeching 
master, who cried out that he was being murdered, and keep- 
ing his cane for a trophy, thrust him bodily into his house of 
learning, turned the great key upon him, and so left him. He 
made his escape by a window and sought my grandfather in 

25 the Duke of Marlboro’ Street as fast as ever his indignant 
legs would carry him. 

Of his interview with Mr. Carvel I know nothing save that 
Scipio was requested presently to show him the door, and con- 
clude therefrom that his language was but ill-chosen. Scipio’s 

30 patrician blood was wont to rise in the presence of those 
whom he deemed outside the pale of good society, and I fear 
he ushered Mr. Fairbrother to the street with little of that 
superior manner he used to the first families. As for Mr. 
Daaken, I feel sure he was not i!l-pleased at the discomfiture 

35 of his rival, though it cost him five of his scholars. 

Our schoolboy battle, though lightly undertaken, was 
fraught with no inconsiderable consequences for me. I was 


I FIRST SUFFER FOR THE CAUSE BB 


duly chided and soundly whipped by my grandfather for the 
part I had played; but he was inclined to pass the matter after 
that, and set it down to the desire for fighting common to 
most boyish natures. And he would have gone no farther than 
this had it not been that Mr. Green, of the Maryland Gazette, s 
ae not refrain from printing the story in his paper. That 
gentleman, being a stout Whig, took great delight in pointing 
out that a grandson of Mr. Carvel was a ringleader in the 
affair. The story was indeed laughable enough, and many a 
barrister’s wig nodded over it at ‘the Coffee House that day. 
When I came home from school I found Scipio beside my 
grandfather's empty seat in the dining room, and I learned 
that Mr. Carvel was in the garden with my Uncle Grafton and 
the Reverend Bennett Ver: rector of St. Anne’s. I well knew 
that something out of the common was in the wind to disturb 1s 
my grandfather’s dinner. Into the garden I went, and under 
the black walnut tree I beheld Mr. Carvel pacing up and 
down in great unrest, his Gazette in his hand, while on the 
bench sat my uncle and the rector of St. Anne’s. So occupied 
was each in his own thought that my coming was unper- zo 
ceived; and I paused in my steps, seized suddenly by an in- 
stinctive dread, I know not of what. The fear of Mr. Carvel 
displeasure passed from my mind so that I cared not hare 
soundly he thrashed me, and my heart filled with a yearning, 
born of the instant, for that simple and brave old gentleman. 25 
For the lad is nearer to nature than the man, and the animal 
oft scents a danger the master cannot see. | read plainly in 
Mr. Allen’ s Handsome face, flushed red with wine as it ever 
was, and in my Uncle Grafton’s looks a snare to which I 
knew my grandfather was blind. I never rightly understood 30 
how it was that Mr. Carvel was deceived in Mr. Allen; per- 
chance the secret lay in his bold manner and in the appear- 
ance of dignity and piety he wore as a cloak when on his 
guard. I caught my breath sharply and took my way toward 
them, resolved to make as brave a front as I might. It was 3¢ 
my uncle, whose ear was ever open, that first heard my foot- 
step and turned upon me. 


Leal 


° 


56 RICHARD CARVEL 


**Here is Richard, now, father,”’ he said. 

I gave him so square a look that he bent his head to the 
ground. My grandfather stopped in his pacing and his eye 
rested upon me, In sorrow rather than in anger, I thought. 

s “Richard,” he began, and paused. For the first time in my 
Life saw. hintictesolistes His looked appealingly at the rector, 
who rose. Mr. Allen was a man of good height and broad 
shoulders, with piercing black eyes, reminding one more of the 
smallsword than aught else I can think of. And he spoke 

ro solemnly, in a deep voice, as though from the pulpit. 

“*] fear it is my duty, Richard, to say what Mr. Carvel can- 
not. It grieves me to tell you, sir, that young as you are you 
have been guilty of treason against the King, and of grave 
offence against his Lordship’s government. I cannot mitigate 

rsmy words, sir. By your rashness, Richard, and [ pray it is 
such, you have brought grief to your grandfather in his age, 
and ridicule and reproach upon a family whose loyalty has 
hitherto been unstained.” 

I scarce waited for him to finish. His pompous words 

2ostung me like the lash of a whip, and I gave no heed to his 
cloth as I answered :— 

“If I have grieved my grandfather, sir, | am heartily sorry, 
and will answer to him for what I have done. And | would 
have you know, Mr. Allen, that I am as able as any to care 

25 for the Carvel honour.” 

I spoke with a vehemence, for the thought carried me 
beyond myself, that this upstart parson his Lordship had but 
a year since sent among us should question our family repu- 
tation. 

30 “Remember that Mr. Allen is of the Church, Richard,” 
said my grandfather, severely. 

**T fear he has little respect for Church or State, sir,” Grafton 
putin. ‘You are now reaping the fruits of your indulgence.” 

I turned to my grandfather. 

3s ‘© You are my protector, sir,’ I cried. “‘And if it please you 
to tell me what I now stand accused of, I submit most duti- 
fully to your chastisement.” 


I FIRST SUFFER FOR THE CAUSE 57 


“Very fair words, indeed, nephew Richard,” said my uncle, 
*fand I draw from them that you have yet to hear of your 
beating an honest schoolmaster without other provocation 
than that he was a loyal servant to the King, and wantonly 
injuring the children of his school.’? He drew from his pocket 5 
a copy of that Gazette Mr. Carvel held in his hand, and added 
ironically: “Here, then, are news which will doubtless sur- 
prise you, sir. And knowing you for a peaceful lad, never 
having entertained such heresies as those with which it 
pleases Mr. Green to credit you, I dare swear he has drawn 
on his imagination.’ 

I took the paper in amaze, not knowing why my grand- 
father, who had ever been so jealous of others taking me to 
task, should permit the rector and my uncle to chide me in his 
presence. The account was in the main true enough, and 1s 
made sad sport of Mr. Fairbrother. 

“Have I not been caned for this, sirt’”’ said [to my grand- 
father.’ 

These words seemed to touch Mr. Carvel, and I saw a tear 
glisten in his eye as he answered :— 20 
“You have, Richard, and stoutly. But your uncle and 

Mr. Allen seem to think that your otfence warrants more 
than a caning, and to deem that you have been actuated by 
bad principles rather than by boyish spirits.” He paused to 
steady his voice, and I realized then for the first time how 25 
sacred he held allegiance to the King. “Tell me, my lad,” 
said he, ‘ ‘tell me, as you love God and the truth, whether they 
are right.” 

For the moment I shrank from speaking, perceiving 
what a sad blow to Mr. Carvel my words must be. And 30 
then I spoke up boldly, catching the exulting sneer on my 
Uncle Grafton’s face and the note of triumph reflected in 
Mr. Allen’s. 

“T have never deceived you, sir,” I said, “and will not now 
hide from you that I believe the colonies to have’a just cause 35 
against his Majesty and Parliament.” The words came ready 
to my lips: “We are none the less Englishmen because we 


Lal 


3 


58 " RICHARD CARVEL 





claim the rights of Englishmen, and, saving your presence, 
sir, are as loyal as those who do not. And if these principles 
be bad,” I added-to my uncle, “‘then should we think with 
shame upon the Magna Charta.” 

s My grandfather stood astonished at such a speech from me, 
whom he had thought a lad yet without a formed knowledge 
of public affairs. But I was, in fact, supersaturated with that 
of which I spoke, and could have given my hearers many able 
Whig arguments to surprise them had the season befitted. 

ro Lhere was silence for a space after I had finished, and then 
Mr. Carvel sank right heavily upon the bench. 

“A Carvel against the King!” was all he said. 

Had I been alone with him I should have cast myself at his 
feet, for it hurt me sorely to see him so. As it was, I held my 

rs head high. 

he: Carvels ever did what they believed right, sir,” | 
answered. “You would not have me to go against my con- 
science?” 

To this he replied nothing. 

20 ‘* The evil has been done, as I feared, father,” said Grafton, 
presently; ““we must now seek for the remedy.” 

“Let me question the lad,” Mr. Allen softly interposed. 
“Tell me, Richard, who has influenced you to this way of 
thinking?” 

es 1 saw his ruse, and was not to be duped by it. 

“Men who have not feared to act bravely against oppres- 
sion, sir, lI said. 

“Thank God,” exclaimed my uncle, with fervour, “that I 
have been more careful of Philip’s associations, and that he 

30 has not caught in the streets and taverns this noxious creed!” 

“There 1 is no danger from Philip; he remembers his family 
name,” said the rector. 

“No,” quoth Mr. Carvel, bitterly, “‘there is no danger from 
Philip. Like his father, he will.ever believe that which best 

35 serves him.” 

Grafton, needless to say, did not pursue such an argument, 

but rising, remarked that this deplorable affair had kept him 


Parks SUrEkER FOR? THE: CAUSE:).~ > ‘59 


long past his dinner hour, and that his services were as ever at 
his father’s disposal. He refused to stay, though my grand- 
father pressed him of course, and with a low bow of filial re- 
spect and duty and a single glance at the rector, my uncle was 
-gone. And then we walked slowly to the house and into the 5 
dining room, Mr. Carvel leading the Pear tees and I an un- 
willing rear, knowing that my fate would be decided between 
them. I thought Mr. Allen’s grace would never end, and the 
meal likewise; I ate but little, while the two gentlemen dis- 
cussed parish matters. And when at last Scipio had retired, 10 
and the rector of St. Anne’s sat sipping the old Madeira, 
his countenance all gravity, but with a relish he could not 
hide, my grandfather spoke up. And though he addressed 
himself to the guest, I knew full well what he said was meant 
for me. 15 

‘““As you see, sir,” said he, “I am sore perplexed and 
troubled. We Carvels, Mr. Allen, have ever been stanch to 
Church and King. My great-grandsire fought at Naseby and 
Marston Moor for Charles, and suffered exile in his name. 
*Twas love for King James that sent my father hither, though 20 
he swore allegiance to Anne and the First George. I can say 
with pride that he was no indifferent servant to either, re- 
fusing honours from the Pretender in ’15, when he chanced to 
be at home. An oath is an oath, sir, and we have yet to be 
false to ours. And the King, say I, should, next to God, be 
loved and loyally served by his subjects. And so I have 
served this George, and his grandfather before him, according 
to the talents which were given me. 

“And ably, sir, permit me to say,” echoed the rector, heart- 
ily. Too heartily, methought. And he carefully filled his 30 
pipe with choice leaf out of Mr. Carvel’s inlaid box. i 

“Be that as it may, I have done my best, as we must all do. 
Pardon me, sir, for speaking of myself. But I have brought 
up this lad from a child, Mr. Allen,” said Mr. Carvel, his 
words coming slowly, as if each gave him pain, “and have 3s 
striven to be an example to him in all things. He has few of 
those faults which I most fear; God be thanked that he loves 





t> 


60 | RICHARD CARVEL 


the truth, for there is yet a chance of his correction. A chance, 
said I?” he cried, his speech coming more rapid, ‘‘nay, he shall 
be cured! I little thought, fool that I was, that he would get 
this pox. His father fought and died for the King; and 

5 should trouble come, which God forbid, to know that Richard 
stood against his Majesty would kill me.’ 

“And well it might, Mr. Carvel,” said the divine. He was 
for the moment sobered, as weak men must be in the presence 
of those of strong convictions. My grandfather had half risen 

ro in his chair, and the lines of his smooth-shaven face deepened 
visibly with the pain of the feelings to which he gave utter- 
ance. As for me, I was well-nigh swept away by a bigness 

’ within me, and torn between love and duty, between pity and 
the reason left me, and sadly tried to know whether my dear 

1s parent’s life and happiness should be weighed against what I 
felt to be right. I strove to speak, but could say nothing. 

‘*He must be removed from the influences,” the rector ven- 
tured, after a halt. 

“That he must indeed,” said my grandfather. “‘Why did I 
20onot send him to Eton last fall? But it is hard, Mr. Allen, to: 
part with the child of our old age. I would take passage and 
go myself with him to-morrow were it not for my duties in the 

Council.” 
Eton! I would have sooner, I believe, wrought by the side 
25 of any rascally redemptioner in the iron mines of the Patapsco’ 
than have gone to Eton. 

“But for the present, sir, I would counsel you to put the’ 
lad’s studies in the charge of some able and learned man, that 
his mind may be turned from the disease which has fed upon 

30it. Some one ‘whose loyalty is beyond question.’ | 

“And who so fit as yourself, Mr. Allen > returned my 
grandfather, relief plain in his voice. “You have his Lord- 
ship’s friendship and confidence, and never has rector of St. 
Anne’s or of any other parish brought letters to his Excellency 

3s to compare with yours. And so I crave your help in this time. 
of need.” 

Mr. Allen showed becoming hesitation. 


f 


| 


I FIRST SUFFER FOR THE CAUSE 61 


vd fear you do me greater honour than I deserve, Mr. Car- 
vel,” he answered, a.strain of the pomp coming back, “though 
my gracious patron is disposed to think well of me, and I shall 
strive to hold his good opinion. But I have duties of parish 
and glebe to attend, and Master Philip Carvel likewise in my 5; 
charge.” 

I held my breath for my grandfather’s reply. The rector, 
however, had read him, and well knew that a show of reluc- 
tance would but inflame him the more. 

““How now, sir?’ he exclaimed. “Surely, as you love the 10 
King, you will not refuse me in this strait.” 

Mr. Allen rose and grasped him by the hand. 

“Nay, sir,’ said he, “and you put it thus, I cannot refuse 

ou. 

The thought of it was too much. I ran to my grandfather rs 
-erying: “Not Mr. Allen, sir, not Mr. Allen. Anyone else you 
please,—Mr. Fairbrother even.’ 

The rector drew back haughtily. “It is clear, Mr. Carvel,” 
he said, “that Richard has other preferences.” 

“And be damned to them!” shouted my grandfather. “‘Am 29 
I to be ruled by this headstrong boy? He has beat Mr. 
Fairbrother, and shall have no skimmed-milk supervision if I 
can help it.” 

And so it was settled that I should be tutored by the rector 
of St. Anne’s, and I took my seat beside my cousin Philip in 2. 
his study the very next day. 


CHAPTER VII 


GRAFTON HAS HIS CHANCE 


To add to my troubles my grandfather was shortly taken 
very ill with the first severe sickness he had ever in his life 
endured. Dr. Leiden came and went sometimes thrice daily, 
and for a week he bore a look so grave as to frighten me. Dr. 

s Evarts arrived by horse from Philadelphia, and the two physi- 
cians held long conversations in the morning room, while [ lis- 
tened at the door and comprehended not a “word of their talk 
save when they spoke of bleeding. And after a very few con- 
sultations, as is often the way in their profession, they dis- 

ro agreed and quarrelled, and Dr. Evarts packed himself back to 
Philadelphia in high dudgeon. Then Mr. Carvel began to 
mend. 

There were many who came regularly to inquire of him, and 
each afternoon I would see the broad shoulders and genial face 

rs of Governor Sharpe in the gateway, completing his walk by 
way of Marlboro’ Street. I loved and admired him, for he 
had been a soldier himself before he came out to us, and had 
known and esteemed my father. His Excellency should surely 
have been knighted for his services in the French war. Once 

20 he spied me at the window and shook his cane pleasantly, and 
in he walks to the room where I sat reading of the victories 
of Blenheim and Malplaquet, for chronicles of this sort I 
delighted in. 

““Aha, Richard,” says he, taking up the book, “’tis plain 

2s whither your tastes lead you. Marlboro’ was a great gen- 
eral, and as sorry a scoundrel as ever led troops to battle. 
Truly,” says he, musing, “the Lord often makes queer choice 
in his instruments for good.” And he lowered himself into 
the easy chair and crossed his legs, regarding me very comi- 


62 


GRAFTON HAS HIS CHANCE 63 


eally. ‘“What’s this I hear of your joining the burghers and 
barristers, and trouncing poor Mr. Fairbrother and his flock, 
and crying ‘Liberty forever!’ in the very ear of the law?’ he 
asks. ‘‘His Majesty will have need of such lads as you, I make 
no doubt, and should such proceedings come to his ears I would 5 
not give a pipe for your chances.” 

I could not but laugh, confused as I was, at his Excellency’s 
rally. And this [ may say, that had it pleased Providence to 
give me dealing with such men of the King’s side as he, per- 
chance my fortunes had been altered. 10 

‘And in any good cause, sir,” * [ replied, “I would willingly 
give my life to his Majesty.” 

“So,” said his Excellency, raising his eyebrows, “I see 
clearly you are of the rascals. Buta lad must have his fancies, 
and when your age I was hot for the exiled Prince. I acquired 15 
more sense as I grew older. And better an active mind, say I, 
than a sluggard partisan.” 

At this stage of our talk came in my Uncle Grafton, and 
bowing low to the Governor made apology that some of the 
elders of the family had not been there to entertain him. He 20 
told his Excellency that he had never left the house save for 
necessary business, which was true for once, my uncle having 
taken up his abode with us during that week. But now, thank- 
ing Heaven and Dr. Leiden and his own poor effort, he could 
report his dear father to be out of danger. 25 

Governor Sharpe answered shortly that he had been happy 
to hear the good news from Scipio. “Faith,” says he, “I was 
well enough entertained, for I have a likine for this lad, and 
to speak truth I saw him here as I came up the walk.” 

My uncle smiled deprecatingly, and hid any vexation he 30 
might have had from this remark. 

“T fear that Richard lacks wisdom as vet, your Excellency,” 
said he, “and has many of his father’s headstrong qualities.” 

“Which you most Bena escaped,” his Excellency 
put in. 35 

Grafton bit his lip. “Necessity makes us all careful, sir,”’ 


said he. 


WI 


64 RICHARD CARVEL 


“Necessity does more than that, Mr. Carvel,” returned the 
Governor, who was something of a wit; “necessity often makes 
us fools, if we be not careful. But give me ever a wanton fool 
rather than him of necessity’s handiwork. And as for the 

s lad,” says he, “‘let him not trouble you. Such as he, if twisted 
a little in the growth, come out straight enough in the end.” 

I think the Governor little knew what wormwood was this 
to my uncle. 

“Tis heartily to be hoped, sir,” he said, “for his folly has 

to brought trouble enough behind it to those who have his educa- 
tion and his welfare in hand, and I make no doubt is at the 
bottom of my father’s illness.” 

At this injustice I could not but cry out, for all the town 
knew, and my grandfather himself best of all, that the trouble 

15 from which he now suffered sprang from his gout. And yet 
my heart was smitten at the thought that I might have has- 
ened or aggravated the attack. The Governor rose. He 
seized his stick aggressively and looked sharply at Grafton. 
“Nonsense,” he exclaimed; “my friend Mr. Carvel is far too 
20 Wise to be upset by a boyish prank which deserves no notice 
save a caning. And that, my lad,” he added lightly, “I dare 
swear you got with interest.’ And he called fora glass of the 
old Madeira when Scipio came with the iray, and departed 
with a polite inquiry after my Aunt Caroline’s health, and a 
25 prophecy that Mr. Carvel would soon be taking the air again. 

There had been high doings indeed in Marlboro’ Street 
that miserable week. My grandfather took to his bed of a 
Saturday afternoon, and bade me go down to Mr. Aikman’s, 
the bookseller, and fetch him the latest books and plays. That 

3onight I became so alarmed that I sent Diomedes for Dr. Lei- 
den, who remained the night through. Sunday was well gone 
before the news reached York Street, when my Aunt Caroline 
came hurrying over in her chair, and my uncle on foot. They 
brushed past Scipio at the door, and were pushing up the long 
35 Hight when they were stopped on the landing by Dr. Leiden. 

“ How is my father, sir?’ Grafton cried, ““and why was I 
not informed at once of his illness? I must see him.” 


GRAFTON HAS HIS CHANCE 65 


“Your vater can see no one, Mr. Carvel,” said the doctor, 
quietly. 

“What,” says my uncle, “you dare to refuse me?” 

' “Not so lout, I bray you,” says the doctor; “I tare any- 
ting vere life is concerned.” 

“But I will see him,” says Grafton, in a sort of helpless rage, 
for the doctor’s manner baffled him. “I will see him before 
he dies, and no man alive shall say me nay.” 

Then my Aunt Caroline gathered up her skirt, and made 
shift to pass the doctor. 10 
“I have come to nurse him,” said she, imperiously, and, 
turning to where [ stood near, she added: “ Bid a servant fetch 

from York Street what I shall have need of.” 

The doctor smiled, but stood firm. He cared little for aught 
in heaven or earth, did Dr. Leiden, and nothing whatever for 1s 
Mr. and Mrs. Grafton Carvel. 

“T peg you, matam, do not disturp yourself,” said he. ‘Mr. 
Carvel is aply attended by an excellent voman, Mrs. Villis, 
and he has no neet of you.” 

-“What,” cried my aunt; ‘this is too much, sir, that I am 20 
thrust out of my father-in-law’s house, and my place taken by a 
menial. That woman able!” she fumed, dropping suddenly her 
cloak of dignity;“‘Mr.Carvel’s charity is all that keeps her here.” 

Then my uncle drew himself up. “Dr. Leiden,” says he, _ 
*‘kindly oblige me by leaving my father’s house, and consider 25 
your services here at an end. And Richard,” he goes on to 
me, ‘‘send my compliments to Dr. Drake, and request him to 
come at once.” 

I was stepping forward to say that I would do nothing of 
the kind, when the doctor stopped me by a signal, as much as 30 
to say that the quarrel was wide enough without me. He 
stood with his back against the great arched window flooded 
with the yellow light of the setting sun, a little black figure in 
high relief, with a face of parchment. And he took a pinch of 
snuff before he spoke. 3 
- “Tam here py Mr. Carvel’s orters, sir,’”’ said he, “and py 


tose alone vill I leaf.” 
‘ 


a 


5 


GO RICHARD CARVEL ! 
And this is how the Chippendale piece was broke, whidll 
you, my children, and especially Bess, admire so extrava= 
gantly. It stood that day behind the doctor, and my uncle, 
making a violent move to get by, struck it, and so it fell with 
5a great crash lengthwise on the landing; and the wonderful 
vases Mr. Carroll had given my grandfather rolled down the 
stairs and lay crushed at the bottom. Withal he had spoken 
so quietly, Dr. Leiden possessed a temper drawn from his Teu- 
tonic ancestors. With his little face all puckered, he swore so 
ro roundly at my uncle in some lingo he had got from his father, 
—High German or Low German,—I know not what, that 
Grafton and his wife were glad enough to pick their way 
amongst the broken bits of class and china, to the hall again. 
Dr. Leiden shook his fist at their retreating persons, saying” 
rs that the Sabbath was no day to do murder. 

I followed them with the pretence of picking up what was 
left of the ornaments. What between anger against the doctor 
and Mrs. Willis, and fright and chagrin at the fall of the Chip- 
pendale piece, my aunt was in such a state of nervous flurry 

20 that she bade the ashy Scipio call her chairmen, and vowed, in 
a trembling voice, she would never again enter a house where 
that low-bred German was to be found. But my Uncle Graf- 
ton was of a different nature. He deemed defeat but a post- 

_ ponement of the object he wished to gain, and settled himself 

asin the library with a copy of Miller on the Distinction of 
Ranks in Society. He appeared at supper suave as ever, 
gravely concerned as to his father’s health, which formed the 
chief topic between us. He gave me to understand that he 
would take the green room until the old gentleman was past 

3odanger. Not a word, mind you, of Dr. Leiden, nor did my 
uncle express a wish to go into the sick-room from which even 
IT was forbid. Nay, the next morning he met the doctor in the 
hall and conversed with him at some length over the case 
as though nothing had occurred between them. 

3s While my Uncle Grafton was in the house I had opportunity 
of marking the intimacy which existed between him and the 
rector of St. Anne’s. The latter swung each evening the 





GRAFTON HAS HIS CHANCE 67 


muffled knocker, and was ushered on tiptoe across the polished 
floor to the library where my uncle sat in state. It was often 
after supper before the rector left, and coming in upon them 
once I found wine between them and empty decanters on the 
board, and they fell silent as I passed the doorway. 5 

Our dear friend Captain Clapsaddle was away when my 
grandfather fell sick, having been North for three months or 
more on some business known to few. “Iwas generally sup- 
posed he went to Massachusetts to confer with the patriots of 
‘that colony. Hearing the news as he rode into town, he came 10 
booted and spurred to Marlboro’ Street before going to his 
lodgings. I ran out to meet him, and he threw his arms about 
me on the street so that those who were passing smiled, for all 
knew the captain. And Harvey, who always came to take the 
captain’s horse, swore that he was glad to see a friend of thers 
family once again. | told the captain very freely of my doings, 
and showed him the clipping from the Gazette, which made 
him laugh heartily. But a shade came upon his face when I 
rehearsed the scene we had with my uncle and Mir. Allen in 
the garden. 20 

“What,” says he, “Mr. Carvel hath sent you to Mr, Allen 
on your uncle’s advice!” 

“No,” I answered, ‘to do my uncle justice, he said not a 
word to Mr. Carvel about it.” 

The captain turned the subject. He asked me much con- 25 
cerning the rector and what he taught me, and appeared but’ 
ill-pleased at that I had to tell him. But he left me without 
so much as a word of comment or counsel. For it was a prin- 
ciple with Captain Clapsaddle not to influence in any way the 
minds of the young, and he would have deemed it unfair to 30 
Mr. Carvel had he attempted to win my sympathies to his. 
Captain Daniel was the first the old gentleman asked to see 
when visitors were permitted him, and you may be sure the 
faithful soldier was below stairs waiting for the summons. 

I was some three weeks with my new tutor, the rector, 35 
before my grandfather’s illness, and went back again as soon 
as he began to mend. I was not altogether unhappy, owing to 


68 RICHARD CARVEL . 


a certain grim pleasure I had in debating with him, which I 
shall presently relate. There was much to annoy and anger 
me too. My cousin Philip was forever carping and criticising 
my Greek and Latin, and it was impossible not to feel his 

5 sneer at my back when | construed. He had pat replies ready 
to correct me when called upon, and ’twas only out of con- 
sideration for Mr. Carvel that | kept my hands from hing 
when we were dismissed. 

I think the rector disliked Philip in his way as much as did 

zol in mine. The Reverend Bennett Allen, indeed, might have 
been a very good fellow had Providence placed him inia dif 
ferent setting; he was one of those whom his Excellency 
dubbed ‘“‘fools from necessity.”’ He should have been born 
with a fortune, though I can think of none he would not have 

t5 run through in a year or so. But nature had given him aristo-. 
cratic tastes, with no other means toward their gratifica- 
tion than good looks, convincing ways, and a certain bold, 
half-defiant manner, which went far with his Lordship andi 
those like him, who thought Mr. Allen excellent good com= 

a0 pany. 

With the rector, as with too many others, holy orders were 
but a means to an end. It was a sealed story what he had 
been before he came to Governor Sharpe with Baltimore’s 
directions to give him the best in the colony. But our takes 

as and wits, and: even our solid men, like my grandfather, req 
ceived him with open arms. He had ever a tale on his tongue’ s 
end tempered to the ear of his listener. 

Who had most influenced my way of thinking, Mr. Alledl 
had well demanded. The gentleman was none other than Mr. 

3o Henry Swain, Patty’s father. Of her I shall speak later, 
He was a rising barrister and man of note among our patriots, 
and member of the Lower House; a difident man in public, 
with dark, soulful eyes, and a wisithes white brow, who had 
declined a nomination to the Congress of *65. At his fire 

35 side, unknown to my grandfather and to Mr. Allen, I i’ 
learned the true principles of government. Before the Hou 
Mr. Swain spoke only under extraordinary emotion, and "J 


GRAFTON HAS HIS CHANCE 69 


he gained every ear. He had been my friend since childhood, 
but I never knew the meaning and the fire of oratory until 
curiosity brought me to the gallery of the Assembly chamber 
in the Stadt House, where the barrister was on his feet at the 
time. I well remember the tingle in my chest as I looked and 5 
listened. And I went again and again, until the House sat 
behind closed doors. 

And so, when Mr. Allen brought forth for my benefit those 
arguments of the King’s party which were deemed their 
strength, 1 would confront him with Mr. Swain’s logic. He 10 
had in me a tough subject for conversion. I was put to very 
small pains to rout my instructor out of all his positions, be- 
cause indolence, and lack of interest in the question, and con- 
tempt for the Americans, had made him neglect the study of 
it. And Philip, who entered at first glibly enough at the rec- 15 
tor’s side, was soon drawn into depths far beyond him. Many 
a time was Mr. Allen fain to laugh at his blunders. I doubt 
not my cousin had the facts straight enough when he rose from 
the breakfast table at home; but by the time he reached the 
rectory they were shaken up like so many parts of a puzzle in 20 
a bag, and past all straightening. 

The rector was especially bitter toward the good people of 
Boston Town, whom he dubbed Puritan fanatics. “To him Mr. 
Otis was but a meddling fool, and Mr. Adams a traitor whose 
head only remained on his shoulders by grace of the extreme 25 
clemency of his Majesty, which Mr. Allen was at a loss to 
understand. When beaten in argument, he would laugh out 
some sneer that would set my blood simmering. One morning 
he came in late for the lesson, smelling strongly of wine, and 
bade us bring our books out under the fruit trees in the gar- 30 
den. He threw back his gown and tilted his cap, and lighting 
his pipe began to speak of that act of Townshend’s, passed 
but the year before, which afterwards proved the King’s folly 
and England’ s ruin. 

_ “Principle!” exclaimed my fine clergyman at length, blow- 35 
ing a great whiff among the white blossoms. ‘“‘Oons! your 
Americans worship his Majesty stamped upon a golden coin. 

! 


70 RICHARD CARVEL 


And though he saved their tills from plunder from the French, 
the miserly rogues are loth to pay for the service.” 

I rose, and taking a guinea-piece from my pocket, held it 
up before him. 

“‘They care this much for gold, sir, and less for his Majesty, 
who cares nothing for them,” I said. And walking to the well 
near by, I dropped the piece carelessly into the clear water. 
He was beside me before it left my hand, and Philip also, in 
time to see the yellow coin edging this way and that toward 
rothe bottom. The rector turned to me with a smile of cynical 

amusement playing over his features. } 

“Such a spirit has brought more than one brave fellow to 
Tyburn, Master Carvel,” he said. And then he added reflec- 
tively, ‘‘ But if there were more like you, we might well have 

rs cause for alarm.” 


5 


oy Wee aes. eS 


CHAPTER VIII 


OVER THE WALL 


Dorortny treated me ill enough that spring. Since the minx 
had tasted power at Carvel Hall, there was no accounting for 
her. On returning to town Dr. Courtenay had begged her 
mother to allow her at the assemblies, a request which Mrs. 
Manners most sensibly refused. Mr. Marmaduke had given 
his consent, I believe, for he was more impatient than Dolly 
for the days when she would become the toast of the province. 
But the doctor contrived to see her in spite of difficulties, and 
Will Fotheringay was forever at her house, and half a dozen 
other lads.. And many gentlemen of fashion like the doctor 
called ostensibly to visit Mrs. Manners, but in reality to see 
Miss Dorothy. And my lady knew it. She would be linger- 
ingin the drawing-room in her best bib and tucker, or stroll- 
ing in the garden as Dr. Courtenay passed, and I got but scant 
attention indeed. I was but an awkward lad, and an old play- 
mate, with no novelty about me. 

“Why, Richard,” she would say to me as I rode or walked 
beside her, or sat at dinner in Prince George Street, “I know 
every twist and turn of your nature. There is nothing you 
could do to surprise me. And so, sir, you are very tire- 
some.” 

“You once found me useful enough to fetch and carry, and 
amusing when I walked the Oriole’s bowsprit,” I replied 
ruefully. 

“Why don’t you make me jealous?” says she, stamping her 
foot. “A score of pretty girls are languishing for a glimpse 
of you,—Jennie and Bess Fotheringay, and Betty Tayloe, 
and Heaven knows how many others. They are actually 
accusing me of keeping you trailing. ‘La, girls!’ said I, “if you 


71 


l 
5 


20 


25 


72 RICHARD CARVEL 


will but rid me of him for a day, you shall have my lasting 
gratitude.’” 

And she turned to the spinet and began a lively air. But 
the taunt struck deeper than she had any notion of. That 
5 spring arrived out from London on the Belle of the Wye a box. 
of fine clothes my grandfather had commanded for me from 
his own tailor; and a word from a maid of fifteen did more to 
make me wear them than any amount of coaxing from Mr. 
Allen and my Uncle Grafton. My uncle seemed in particular 
ro anxious that I should make a good appearance, and reminded 
me that I should dress as became the heir of the Carvel house. 
} took counsel with Patty Swain, and then went to see Betty 
Tayloe, and the Fotheringay girls, and the Dulany girls, near 
the Governor’s. And (fie upon me!) I was not iil-pleased 

15 with the brave appearance I made. I would show my mistress 
how little I cared. But the worst of it was, the baggage 
seemed to trouble less than I, and had the effrontery to tell 
me how happy she was I had come out of my shell, and broken 
loose from her apron-strings. 

20 ‘Indeed, they would soon begin to think I meant to marry 
you, Richard,” says she at supper one Sunday before a table-. 
ful, and laughed with the rest. ; 

“They do not credit you with such good sense, my dear,” 
says her mother, smiling kindly at me. 

25 And Dolly bit her lip, and did not join in that part of the 
merriment. : 

I fled to Patty Swain for counsel, nor was it the first time in | 
my life I had done so. Some good women seem to have been _ 
put into this selfish world to comfort and advise. After Prince 

30 George Street with its gilt and marbles and stately hedged 
gardens, the low-beamed, vine-covered house in the Duke of 
Gloucester Street was a home and a rest. In my eyes there 
was not its equal in Annapolis for beauty within and without. — 
Mr. Swain had bought the dwelling from an aged man with a 

35 history, dead some nine years back. Its furniture, for the most — 
part, was of the Restoration, of simple and massive oak black- 
ened by age, which I ever fancied better than the Frenchy 


OVER THE WALL 73 


baubles of tables and chairs with spindle legs, and cabinets of 
glass and gold lacquer which were then making their way into 
the fine mansions of our town. The house was full of twists 
and turns, and steps up and down, and nooks and passages 
and queer hiding-places which we children knew, and in parts 5 
queer leaded windows of bulging glass set high in the wall, 
and older than the reign of Hanover. Here was the shrine of 
cleanliness, whose high-priestess was Patty herself. Her floors 
were like satin-wood, and her brasses lights in themselves. 
She had come honestly enough by her gifts, her father having 10 
married the daughter of an able townsman of Salem, in the 
Massachusetts colony, when he had gone north after his first 
great success in court. Now the poor lady sat in a padded 
armchair from morning to night, beside the hearth in winter, 
and under the trees in summer, by reason of a fall she had had. 15 
There she knitted all the day long. Her placid face and quiet 
way come before me as I write. 

My friendship with Patty had begun early. One autumn 
day when I was a little lad of eight or nine, my grandfather 
and I were driving back from Whitehall in the big coach, when 20 
we spied a little maid of six by the Severn’s bank, with her 
apron full of chestnuts. She was trudging bravely through 
the dead leaves toward the town. Mr. Carvel pulled the cord 
to stop, and asked her name. “Patty Swain, and it please 
your honour,” the child answered, without fear. “So you are 25 
the young barrister’s daughter?” says he, smiling at something 
I did not understand. She nodded. “And how is it you are 
so far from home, and alone, my little one?”’ asked Mr. Carvel 
again. For some time he could get nothing out of her; but at 
length she explained, with much coaxing, that her big brother 30 
Tom had deserted her. My grandfather wished that Tom 
were his brother, that he might be punished as he deserved. 
He commanded young Harvey to lift the child into the coach, 
chestnuts and all, and there she sat primly between us. She 
was not as pretty as Dorothy, so I thought, but her clear gray 35 
eyes and simple ways impressed me by ‘their very honesty, as 
they did Mr. Carvel. What must he do but drive her home to 


\ 


74 RICHARD CARVEL 


Green Street, where Mr. Swain then lived in a little cottage. 
Mr. Carvel himself lifted her out and kissed her, and handed 
her to her mother at the gate, who was vastly overcome by the 
circumstance. The good lady had not then received that fall 
s which made her a cripple for life. “And will you not have 
my chestnuts, sir, for your kindness?’ says little Patty. 
Whereat my grandfather laughed and kissed her again, for he 
loved children, and wished to know if she would not be his 
daughter, and come to live in Marlboro’ Street; and told the 
ro story of Tom, for fear she would not. He was silent as we 
drove away, and I knew he was thinking of my own mother 
at that age. 
Not long after this Mr. Swain bought the house in the Duke 
of Gloucester Street. This, as you know, is back to back with 
x5 Marlboro’. To reach Patty’s garden I had but to climb the 
brick wall at the rear of our grounds, and to make my way 
along the narrow green lane left there for perhaps a hundred 
paces of a lad, to come to the gate in the wooden paling. In 


return [ used to hoist Patty over the wall, and we would play — 


20 at children’s games under the fruit trees that skirted it. Some 


instinct kept her away from the house. I often caught her | 
gazing wistfully at its wings and gables. She was not.born to ~ 


a mansion, so she said. 


“But your father is now rich,” I objected. I had heard ~ 


25 Captain Daniel say so. ‘‘He may have a mansion of his own 


and he chooses. He can,better afford it than many who are in © 


debt for the fine show they make.” I was but repeating 
Ossi 


“T should like to. see hthe grand company come in, when your — 


30 grandfather has/them to dine,” said the girl. “Sometimes we 


have grand gentlemen come to see father in their coaches, but — 


they talk of nothing but politics. We never have any fine 
ladies like—like your Aunt Caroline.” 
I startled her by laughing derisively. 
35 And I pray you never may, Patty,” was all I said. 


_Inever told Dolly of my intimacy with the barrister’s little 
girl over the wall. This was not because I was ashamed of 





OVER THE WALL eae. 


the friendship, but arose from a fear—well-founded enough— 
that she would make sport of it. At twelve Dolly had notions 
concerning the walks of life that most other children never 
dream of. They were derived, of course, from Mr. Marma- 
duke. But the day of reckoning arrived. Patty and I were s 
romping beside the back wall when suddenly a stiff little fgure 
in a starched frock appeared through the trees in the direction 
of the house, followed by Master Will Fotheringay in his 
visiting clothes. I laugh now when I think of that formal 
meeting between the two little ladies. There was no time to 10 
hoist Miss Swain over the wall, or to drive Miss Manners back 
upon the house. Patty stood blushing as though caught in a 
guilty act, while she of the Generations came proudly on, Will 
sniggering behind her. 

“Who 1s this, Richard?” asks Miss Manners, pointing a 15 
small forefinger. 

“Patty Swain, if you must know!” I cried, and added boy- 
like: “And she is just as good as you or me, and better.” I 
Was quite red in the face, and angry because of 1 it. “This is 
Dorothy Manners, Patty, and Will Fotheringay.” 20 

The moment was a pregnant one. But I was resolved to 
carry the matter out with a bold front. “Will you join us at 
catch and swing?” I asked. 

Will promptly declared that he would join, for Patty was 
good to look upon. Dolly glanced at her dress, tossed her 25 
head, and marched back alone. 

“Oh, Richard!” cried Patty; “I shall never forgive myself! 

I have ‘made you quarrel with—”’ 
“His sweetheart,” said Will, wickedly. 

**IT don’t care,” said I. Which was not so. 30 

Patty felt no resentment for my miss’s haughty conduct, 
but only a tearful penitence for having been the cause of a 
strife between us. Will’s arguments and mine availed nothing. 

I must lift her over the La again, and she went home. When 
we reached the garden we found Dolly seated beside her ;; 
mother on my grandfather’s bench, from which stronghold 
our combined tactics were powerless to drag her. 


76 RICHARD CARVEL 


When Dolly was gone, I asked my grandfather in great in- 


dignation why Patty did not play with the children I knew, 


with Dorothy and the Fotheringays. He shook his head dubi- — 


ously. “‘When you are older, Richard, you will understand 
5 that our social ranks are cropped close. Mr. Swain is an hon- 
est and an able man, though he believes in things I donot. | 
hear he is becoming wealthy. And I have no doubt,” the 
shrewd old gentleman added, “that when Patty grows up she 
will be going to the assemblies, though it was not so in my 
rotime.” So liberal was he that he used to laugh at my lifting 
her across the wall, and in his leisure delight to listen to my 


. 


accounts of her childish housekeeping. Her life was indeed a © 
contrast to Dorothy’s. She had all the solid qualities that my — 


lady lacked in early years. And yet I never wavered in my — 


1s liking to the more brilliant and wayward of the two. The 


week before my next birthday, when Mr. Carvel drew me to © 
him and asked me what I wished for a present that year, as 


was his custom, I said promptly :-— 
“IT should like to have Patty Swain at my party, sir.” 


20 ‘so you shall, my lad,” he cried, taking his snuff and eyeing — 


me with pleasure. “I am glad to see, Richard, that you have 
none of Mr. Marmaduke’s nonsense about you. She is a good 
girl, 7 faith, and more of a lady now than many who call 
themselves such. ‘And you shall have your present to boot. 


2s Hark’ee, Daniel,” said he to the captain; “if the child comes — 


to my house, | the poll-parrots and follow-meups will be want- 
ing her, too.’ 
But the getting her to go was a matter of five days. For 
Patty was sensitive, like her father, and dreaded a slight. Not 
3080 with Master Tom, who must needs be invited, too. He 
arrived half an hour ahead of time, arrayed like Solomon, and 


without his sister! I had to go for Patty, indeed, after the 
party had begun, and to get the key to the wicket in the wall — 


to take her in that way, so shy was she. My dear grandfather 

35 showed her particular attention. And Miss Dolly herself, 
being in the humour, taught her a minuet. 

After that she came to all my birthdays, and lost some of 





OVER THE WALL 77 


her shyness. And was invited to other great houses, even as 
Mr. Carvel had predicted. But her chief pleasure seemed ever 
her duty. Whether or no such characters make them one and 
the same, who can tell? She became the light of her father’s 
house, and used even to copy out his briefs, at which task I ; 
often found her of an evening. 

As for Tom, that graceless scamp, I never could stomach 
him. I wondered then, as I have since, how he was the brother 
of such a sister. He could scarce bide his time until Mr. Swain 
should have a coach and a seat in the country with the gentry. 10 
“A barrister,’ quoth he, “is as good as anyone else. And if 
my father came out a redemptioner, and worked his way, so 
had old Mr. So and So. Our family at home was the equal of 
his.” All of which was true, and more. He would deride 
Patty for sewing and baking, vowing that they had servants 1; 
enough now to do the work twice over. She bore with him 
with a patience to be marvelled at; and I could never get it 
through my head why Mr. Swain indulged him, though he was 
the elder, and his mother’s favourite. Tom began to dress 
early. His only admiration was Dr. Courtenay, his confessed 20 
hope to wear one-pound ruffles and gold sword knots. He 
clung to Will Fotheringay with a tenacity that became pro- 
verbial among us boys, and his boasts at King William’s 
School were his father’s growing wealth and intimacy with the 
great men of the province. 25 

As I grew older, [ took the cue of political knowledge, as I 
have said, from Mr. Swain rather than Captain Daniel, who 
would tlle nothing. I fell into the habit of taking supper 
in Gloucester Street. The meal was early there. And when 
the dishes were cleared away, and the barrister’s pipe lit, and 30 
Patty and her mother had got their sewing, he would talk by 
the hour on the Jegality of our resistance to the King, and dis- 
cuss the march of affairs in England and the other colonies. 
He found me a ready listener, ‘and took pains to teach me 
clearly the right and wrong of the situation. *Iwas his rel1- 35 
gion, even as ‘loyalty to the King was my grandfather’s, and 
he did not think it wrong to spread it. He likewise instilled 


78 RICHARD CARVEL 


into me in that way more of history than Mr. Allen had ever 
taught me, using it to throw light upon this point or that. 
But I never knew his true power and eloquence until I fol-— 
lowed him to the Stadt House. 

Patty was grown a girl of fifteen then, glowing with health, 
and had ample good looks of her own. *lis odd enough that — 
I did not fall in love with her when Dolly began to use me — 
so outrageously. But a lad of eighteen is scarce a rational — 
creature. I went and sat before my oracle upon the vine- 
19 covered porch under the eaves, and poured out my complaint. 

She laid down her needlework and laughed. 

“You silly boy,” said she, “can’t you see that she herself 
has prescribed for you? She was right when she told you to 
show attention to Jenny. And if you dangle about Miss 

1; Dolly now, you are in danger of losing her. She knows it 
better than you.” 

I had Jenny to ride the very next day. Result: my lady 
smiled on me more sweetly than ever when I went to Prince 
George Street, and vowed Jenny had never looked prettier 

29 than when she went past the house. ‘This left my victory in 
such considerable doubt that I climbed the back wall forth- 
with in my new top-boots. 

**So you looked for her to be angry?” said Patty. 

“Most certainly,” said I. 

“Unreasoning vanity!” she cried, for she knew how to 
speak plain. ‘‘By your confession to me you have done this — 
to please her, for she warned you at the beginning it would — 
please her. And now you complain of it. I believe I know 
your Dorothy better than you.” 

And so I got but little comfort out of Patty that time. 


5 


Eo 


—— a 


i i ee tl i 


25 


30 





CHAPTER IX 


UNDER FALSE COLOURS 


AND now I come to a circumstance in my life I would rather 
pass over quickly. Had I steered the straight course of my 
impulse I need never have deceived that dear gentleman whom 
I loved and honoured above any in this world, and with whom 
I had always lived and dealt openly. After my grandfather 
was pronounced to be mending, [ went back to Mr. Allen until 
such time as we should be able to go to the country. Philip 
no longer shared my studies, his hours having been changed 
from morning to afternoon. I thought nothing of this, being 
content with the rector’s explanation that my uncle had a task 
for Philip in the morning, now that Mr. Carvel was better. 
And I was well content to be rid of Philip’s company. But as 
the days passed I began to mark an absence still stranger. I 
had my Horace and my Ovid still; but the two hours from 
eleven to one, which he was wont to give up to history and 
what he was pleased to call instruction in loyalty, were filled 
with other matter. Not a word now of politics from Mr. Allen. 
Not even a comment from him concerning the spirited doings 
of our Assembly, with which the town was ringing. That 


body had met but a while before, primed to act on the circu- 2 


lar drawn up by Mr. Adams of Massachusetts. The Gover- 
nor’s message had not been so prompt as to forestall them, and 
I am occupied scarce the time in the writing of this that it 
took our brave members to adopt the petition to his Majesty 
and to pass resolutions of support to our sister colony of the 
North. This being done, and a most tart reply penned to his 
Excellency, they ended that sitting and passed in procession 
to the Governor’s mansion to deliver it, Mr. Speaker Lloyd at 
their head, and a vast concourse of cheering people at their 


79 


5 


Io 


H 


5 


~) 
° 


80 RICHARD CARVEL 


heels. Shutters were barred on the Tory houses we passed. 
And though Mr. Allen spied me in the crowd, he never men- 
tioned the circumstance. More than once I essayed to draw 
from him an opinion of Mr. Adams’ petition, which was 
sdeemed a work of great moderation and merit, and got 
nothing but evasion from my tutor. That he had become 
suddenly an American in principle I could not believe. At 


length | made bold to ask him why our discussions were now: 


omitted. He looked up from the new play he was reading on 
ro the study lounge, with a glance of dark meaning I could not 
fathom. 

“You are learning more than I can teach you in Gloucester 
Street, and at the Stadt House,” he said. 

In truth I was at a loss to understand his attitude until the 

ts day in June my grandfather and I went to Carvel Hall. 

The old gentleman was weak still, so feeble that he had to 
be carried to his barge in a chair, a vehicle he had ever held in 
scorn. But he was cheerful, and his spirit remained the same 
as of old: but for that spirit I believe he had never again risen 

zo from his bed in Marlboro’ Street. My uncle and the rector 
were among those who walked by his side to the dock, and 
would have gone to the Hall with him had he permitted them. 


He was kind enough to say that my arm was sufhcient to — 


lean on. 
25 What peace there was sitting once again under the rustling 
trees on the lawn with the green river and the blue bay spread 


out before us, and Scipio standing by with my grandfather’s | 


punch. Mr. Carvel would have me rehearse again all that 
had passed in town and colony since his illness, which I did 


30 with as much moderation as | was able. And as we talked — 


Sa Stn out and took my hand, for I sat near him, and 
said :— 
“Richard, I have heard tidings of you that gladden my 
heart, and they have done more than Dr. Leiden’s physic for 
35 this old frame of mine. I well knew a Carvel could never go 
a wrong course, lad, and you least of any.” 
“Tidings, sir!” I said. 


ae 


UNDER FALSE COLOURS Sr 


“Ay, tidings,” answered Mr. Carvel. Such a note of relief 
and gladness there was in the words as | had not heard for 
months from him, and a vague fear came upon me. 

“Scipio,” he said merrily, “‘a punch for Mr. Richard.” 
And when the glass was brought my grandfather added: 5 

“May it be ever “thus!” 

I drained the toast, not falling into his humour or compre- 
hending his réference, but, dreading that aught I might say 
would disturb him, held my peace. And yet my apprehension 
increased. He set down his glass and continued :— 10 

“T had no hope of this yet, Richard, for you were ever slow 
to change. Your conversion does credit to Mr. Allen as well 
as to you. In short, sir, the rector gives me an excellent good 
account of your studies, and adds that the King hath gained 
another loyal servant, for which I thank God.” 

I have no words to write of my feelings then. My Renan 
swam and my hand trembled on my grandfather’ s, and I saw 
dimly the old gentleman’s face aglow with joy and pride, and 
knew not what to say or do. The answer | framed, alas, re- 
mained unspoken. From his own lips I had heard how much 20 
the news had mended him, and for once | lacked the heart, 
nay, the courage, to speak the truth. But Mr. Carvel took 
no heed of my silence, setting it down to another cause. 

“‘And so, my son,” he said, ‘‘there 1s no need of sending you 
to Eton next fall. I am not much longer for this earth, and 25 
can ill spare you: and Mr. Allen kindly consents to prepare 
you for Oxford.” 

“Mr. Allen consents to that, sir?” I gasped. I think, could 
I have laid hands on the rector then, I would have aeened 
him, cloth and all, within an inch of his life. 30 

And as if to crown my misery Mr. Carvel rose, and bearing 
heavily on my shoulder led me to the stable where Harvey 
and one of the black grooms stood in livery to receive us. 
Harvey held by the bridle a blooded bay hunter, and her like 
could scarce be found in the colony. As she stood arching her 35 
_ neck and pawing the ground, | all confusion and shame, my 
_ grandfather said simply :— 


82 RICHARD CARVEL 


“Richard, this is Firefly. I have got her for you from Mr. 
Randolph, of Virginia, for you are now old enough to have a 
good mount of your own.” 

All that night I lay awake, trying to sift some motive for 

s Mr. Allen’s deceit. For the life of me I could see no farther 
than a desire to keep me as his pupil, since he was well paid 
for his tuition. Still, the game did not seem worth the candle. 
However, he was safe in his lie. Shrewd rogue that he was, 
he well knew that I would not risk the attack a disappoint- 

roment might bring my grandfather. 

What troubled me most of all was the fear that Grafton had 
reaped the advantage of the opportunity the illness gave him, 
and by his insidious arts had worked himself back into the 
good graces of his father. You must not draw from this, my 

rs dears, that I feared for the inheritance. Praised be God, I 
never thought of that! But I came by nature to hate and to 
fear my uncle, as I hated and feared the devil. I saw him 
with my father’s eyes, and with my mother’s, and as my 
grandfather had seen him in the old days when he was strong. 

zolnstinct and reason alike made me loathe him. As the 
months passed, and letters in Grafton’s scroll hand came 
from the Kent estate or from Annapolis, my misgivings were 
confirmed by odd remarks that dropped from Mr. Carvel’s 
lips. At length arrived the revelation itself. 

2s ‘I fear, Richard,” he had said querulously, “I fear that all 
these*years I have done your uncle an injustice. Dear Eliza- 
beth was wont to plead for him before she died, but I would 
never listen to her. [ was hearty and strong then, and my 
heart was hard. And a remembrance of many things was 

30 fresh in my mind.” He paused for breath, as was his habit 
now. And I said nothing. “But Grafton has striven to wipe 
out the past. Sickness teaches us that we must condone, and 
not condemn. He has lived a reputable life, and made the 

most of the little start I gave him. He has supported his 

3s Majesty and my Lord in most trying times. And his Excel-— 
lency tells me that the coming governor, Eden, will surely 
reward him with a seat in the Council.” 


UNDER FALSE COLOURS 83 


{ thought of Governor Sharpe’s biting words to Grafton. 
The Governor knew my uncle well, and I was sure he had 
never sat at his Council. 

‘**A son is a son, Richard,” continued Mr. Carvel. ‘You 
will one day find that out. Your uncle has atoned. He hath 5 
been faithful during my illness, despite my cold treatment. 
And he hath convinced me that your welfare is at his heart. 

I believe he is fond of you, my lad.” 

No greater sign of breaking health did I need than this, 
that Mr. Carvel should become blind to Grafton’s hypocrisy; 10 
forget his attempts to prevent my father’s marriage, and to 
throw doubt upon my mother’s birth.» The agony it gave me, 
coming as it did on top of the cruel deception, I shall not dwell 
upon. And,the thought bursting within me remained un- 
spoken. 15 

I saw less of Dorothy then than I had in any summer of 
my life before. In spite of Mrs. Manners, the chrysalis had 
burst into the butterfly, and Wilmot House had never been 
so gay. It must be remembered-that there were times when 
young ladies made their entrance into the world at sixteen, 20 
and for a beauty to be unmarried at twenty-two was rare 
indeed. When I went to Wilmot House to dine, the table 
would be always full, and Mr. Marmaduke simpering at 
the head of it, his air of importance doubled by his reflected 
glory. 25 

“We see nothing of you, my lad,” he would say; “you must 
_ not let these young gallants get ahead of you. How does your 
grandfather? I must pay my compliments to-morrow.” 

Of gallants there were enough, to be sure. Dr. Courtenay, 
of course, with a nosegay on his coat, striving to catch the 30 
beauty’s eye. And Mr. Worthington and Mr. Dulany, and 
Mr. Fitzhugh and Mr. Paca, and I know not how many other 
young bachelors of birth and means. And Will Fotheringay, 
who spent some of his time with me at the Hall. Silver and 
china, with the Manners coat-of-arms, were laid out that had 3s 
not seen the light for many a long day. And there were pic- 
nics, and sailing parties, and dances galore, some of which I 


84 RICHARD CARVEL 


attended, but heard of more. It seemed to me that my lady 

was tiring of the doctor’s compliments, and had transferred 

her fickle favour to young Mr. Fitzhugh, who was much more 

worthy, by the way. As for me, I had troubles enough then, 
sand had become used in some sort to being shelved. 

One night in July,—’twas the very day Mr. Carvel had 
spoken to me of Grafton,—I had ridden over to Wilmot 
House to supper. I had little heart for going, but good Mrs. 
Manners herself had made me promise, and | could not break 

xomy word. | must have sat very silent and preoccupied at the 
table, where all was wit and merriment. And more than once 
I saw the laughter leave Dorothy’s face, and caught her eyes 
upon me with such a look as set my heart throbbing. They 
would not meet my own, but would turn away instantly. I 

15 was heavy indeed that night, and did not follow the com- 
pany into the ball-room, but made my excuses to Mrs. 
Manners. 

The lawn lay bathed in moonlight; and as J picked my way 
over it toward the stables for Firefly, I paused to look back 

20 at the house aglow with light, the music of the fiddles and 
the sound of laughter floating out of the open windows. 
Even as I gazed a white figure was framed in the doorway, 
paused a moment on the low stone step, and then came on 
until it stood beside me. 

25 “Are you not well, Richard?” 

“Yes, I am well,’ I answered. I scarcely knew my own 
voice. 

“Ts your grandfather worse?” 

““No, Dorothy; he seems better to-day.” 

30 She stood, seemingly irresolute, her eyes now lifted, now 
falling before mine. Her slender arms bare, save for the 
little “puff at the shoulders; her simple dress drawn a little 
above the waist, then falling straight to the white slippers. 
How real the ecstasy of that moment, and the pain of it! | 

3s ‘Why do you not come over, as you used to?” she asked 
in a low tone. 

“Tam very busy,” I replied evasively; ‘‘Mr. Carvel cannot 


ee ee ee eee eleerrl leer 





UNDER FALSE COLOURS 85 


attend to his affairs.”” I longed to tell her the whole truth, 
but the words would not come. 

“T hear you are managing the estate all alone,” she said. 

‘There is no one else to do it.’ 

“Richard,” she cried, drawing closer, “‘you are in trouble. 5 
I—I have seen it. You are so silent, and—and you seem to 
have become older. Tell me, 1s it your Uncle Grafton?’ 

So astonished was I at the question, and because she had 
divined so surely, that I did not answer. 

“Ts it?’ she asked again. To 

Rives; selosaidsiyes, in part.” 

And then came voices calling from the house. They had 
missed her. 

“T am so sorry, Richard. [ shall tell no one.” 

She laid her hand ever so lightly upon mine and was gone. 15 
I stood staring after her until she disappeared in the door. 
All the way home I marvelled, my thoughts tumultuous, my 
hopes rising and falling. 

But when next I saw her, I thought she had forgotten. . 

We had little company at the Hall that year, on account of 20 
Mr. Carvel. And I had been busy indeed. I sought with all 
my might to master a business for which [ had but little 
taste, and my grandfather complimented me, before the season 
was done, upon my management. I was wont to ride that 
summer at four of a morning to canter beside Mr. Starkie 25 
aheld, and I came to know the yield of every patch to a hogs- 
head and the pound price to a farthing. I grew to understand 
as well as another the methods of curing the leaf. And, the 
wheat pest appearing that year, I had the good fortune to dis- 
cover some of the clusters in the sheaves, and ground our 30 
oyster-shells in time to save the crop. Many a long even- 
ing 1 spent on the wharves with old Stanwix, now toothless 
and living on his pension, with my eye on the glow of his 
pipe and my ear bent to his stories of the sea. It was his | 
fancy that the gift of prophecy had come to him with the 35 
years; and at times, when his look would wander to the black 
rigging in the twilight, he would speak strangely enough. 


86 ~ RICHARD CARVEL 


“Faith, Mr. Richard,” he would say; “tho’ your father was 
a soldier afore ye, ye were born to the deck of a ship-o’-war. 
Mark an-old man’s words, sir.” . 

“Can you see the frigate, Stanwix!”’ I laughed once, when 

5 he had repeated this with more than common solemnity. 

His reply rose above the singing of the locusts. 

“Ay, sir, that I can. But she’s no frigate, sir. Devil knows 
what she 1s. She looks like a big merchantman to me, such 
as I’ve seed: in the Injy trade, with a high poop in the old 

ro style. And her piercin’s be not like a frigate.” He said this 
with a readiness to startle me, and little enough superstition I 
had. A light was on his seared face, and his pipe lay neg- 
lected on the boards. ‘Ay, sir, and there be a flag astern of 
her never yet seed on earth, nor on the waters under the 

rsearth. The tide is settin’ in, the tide is settin’ in.” 

These were words to set me thinking. And many a time 
they came back to me when the old man was laid away 
in the spot reserved for those who sailed the seas for Mr. 

~ Carvel. 

20 Every week I drew up a report for my grandfather, and 
thus I strove by shouldering labour and responsibility to ease 
my conscience of that load which troubled it. For often, as 
we walked together through the yellow fields of an evening, 
it had been on my tongue to confess the lie Mr. Allen had led 

esme into. But the sight of the old man, trembling and 
tremulous, aged by a single stroke, his childlike trust m my 
strength and beliefs, and above all his faith m a political 
creed which he nigh deemed needful for the soul’s salvation, 
—these things still held me back. Was it worth while now, I 

3o asked myself, to disturb the peace of that mind? 


Thus the summer wore on to early autumn. And one day I | 


was standing booted and spurred in the stables, Harvey putting | 
the bridle upon Firefly, when my boy Hugo comes running in. 
*“*Marse Dick!”’ he cries, ““Marse Satan he come in the pin- 
3s nace, and young Marse Satan and Missis Satan, and Marse 
Satan’s pastor!” | 
“What the devil do you mean, Hugo?” 


{ 


\ 


: 
: 
: 
{ 


UNDER FALSE COLOURS 87 


“Young ebony’s right, sir,’ chuckled Harvey; “‘’tis the 
devil and his following.” 

“Do you mean Mr. Grafton, fellow?’ I demanded, the 
unwelcome truth coming over me. 

“That he does,” remarked Harvey laconically. ‘You won’t 5 
be wanting her now, your honour?” 

“Hold my stirrup,” I cried, for the news had put me in 
anger. “Hold my stirrup, sirrah!”’ 

I believe I took Firefly the best of thirty miles that after- 
noon and brought her back in the half-light, my saddle dis- 10 
coloured with her sweat. I clanked into the hall like a captain 
of horse. he night was sharp with the first touch of autumn, 
and a huge backlog lay on the irons. Around it, in a comfort- 
able half-circle, sat our guests, Grafton and Mr. Allen and 
Philip smoking and drinking for a whet against supper, and rs 
‘Mrs. Grafton in my grandfather’s chair. There was an 
easy air of possession about the party of them that they had 
never before assumed, and the sight made me rattle again the 
big door behind me. 

‘A surprise for you, my dear nephew,” Grafton said gayly. 20 
“ll lay a puncheon you did not expect us.” 

Mr. Carvel woke with a start at the sound of the door and 
said querulously, “Guests, my lad, and I have done my poor 
best to make them welcome in your absence.” 

The sense of change in him stung me. How different 25 
would his tone have been a year ago! 

He tattooed with his cane, which was the sign he generally 
made when he was ready for bed. Toward night his speech 
would hurt him. I assisted him up the stairs, my uncle taking 
his arm on the other side. And together, with Diomedes’s 30 
help, we undressed him, Grafton talking in low tones the 
while. Since this was an office I was wont to perform, my 
temper was now overwhelming me. But I kept my mouth 
closed. At last he had had the simple meal Dr. Leiden al- 
lowed him, his candles were snuffed, and my uncle and I made 35 
our way to the hall together. There my aunt and Mr. Allen 
were at picquet. 


ad 
I A 


88 RICHARD CARVEL 


“Supper is insupportably late,” says she, with a yawn, and 
rings the hand-bell. “Scipio,” she cries, ““why are we not 
served?” 

I took a stride forward. But my uncle raised a restraining 
s hand. 
“Caroline, remember that this 1s not our house,” says he, 
reprovingly. 
There fell a deep silence, the log cracking; and just then 
the door swung on its hinges, and Mr. Starkie entered with 
ro the great bunch of keys in his hand. 
“The buildings are all secure, Mr. Richard,” he said. 
“Very good, Starkie,” I replied. I turned to Scipio, stand- 
ing by the low-boy, his teeth going like a castanet. 
“You may serve at the usual hour, Scipio,” said I. 

15 Supper began stiff as a state banquet. My uncle was con- 
ciliatory, with the manners of a Crichton. My aunt, not 
having come from generations of silver and self-control, flatly 
ina bad humour. Mr. Allen talked from force of habit, being 
used to pay in such kind for his meals. But presently the 

20 Madeira warmed these two into a better spirit. I felt that I 
had victory on my side, and was nothing loth to join them at. 
whist, Philip and I against the rector and my aunt, and won 
something like two pounds apiece from them. Grafton 

made it a rule never to play. 

2s he next morning, when I returned from my inspection, I 
found the rector and Philip had decamped with two of our 
choice horses, and that my uncle and aunt had commanded 
the barge, and gone to Mr. Lloyd’s. I sent for Scipio. 

“Fore de Lawd, Marse Richard,” he wailed, ‘“’twan’t 

30 Scipio's fault. Marse Grafton is de fambly!’ This was 
Scipio’s strongest argument. “‘I jes’ can’t refuse one of de 
fambly, Marse Dick; “and old Marse he say he too old now 
for quarrellin’.” 

I saw that resistance was useless. There was nothing for 
35it but to bide my time. And I busied myself with bills of 
cargo until I heard the horses on the drive. Mr. Allen and 


T 


3 
4 


UNDER FALSE COLOURS 89 


Philip came swaggering in, flushed with the exercise, and 
calling for punch, and I met them in the hall. 
“A word with you, Mr. Allen!’ I called out. 
** A thousand, Mr. Richard, if you like,” he said gayly, “as 
soon as this thirst of mine be quenched.” 
__ I waited while he drained two glasses, when he followed me 
into the library, closing the door behind him. 
— “Now, sir,” I began, “though by a chance you are my 
mental and spiritual adviser, I intend speaking plain. For I 
know you to be one of the greatest rogues in the colony.” 10 
I watched him narrowly the while; for I had some notion 
he might run me through. But I had misjudged him. 
“Speak:plain, by all means,” he replied; “but first let me 
ask for some tobacco.” 
_ He filled the bowl of his pipe, and sat him down by the rs 
-window. For the moment I was silent with sheer surprise. 
~ “You know I can’t call you out,” he went on, surrounding 
himself with clouds of smoke, “‘a lad of eighteen or so. And 
even if I could, I doubt whether I should. I like you, Rich- 
-ard,”’ said he. “You are straight-spoken and commanding. 20 
In brief, sir, you are the kind of lad I should have been had 
not fate pushed me into a corner, and made me squirm for 
life’s luxuries. I hate squirming as much as another. This 
is prime tobacco, Richard.” 
He had come near disarming me; | was on the edge of a 25 
dangerous admiration for this man of the world, and for the 
) life of me, I could not help liking him then. He had a fine 
presence, was undeniably handsome, and his riding clothes 
were of the latest London cut. 
_ “Are there not better methods for obtaining what you 30 
wish than those you practise?” I asked curiously. 
_ “No doubt,” he answered carelessly; ‘but these are well 
enough, and shorter. You were about to do me the honour 
of a communication?” 
This brought me to my senses. I had, however, lost much 35 
of my heat in the interval. 








90 RICHARD CARVEL . 
























“T should like to know why you lied to Mr. Carvel about 
my convictions, Mr. Allen,” I said. “I am not of the King’s 
party now, and never shall be. And you know this better 
than another.” 

s ‘Those are strong words, Richard, my lad,” said he, bring- 
ing his eyebrows together. . 

“They are true words,” I retorted. “Why did you lie, I 
say! ??? 

He said nothing for a while, but his breath came heavily. 

ro “I will pass it, I will pass it,” he said at length, “but, by 
God! it is more than I have had to swallow in all my life be- 
fore. Look at your grandfather, sir!’ he cried; ““behold him 
on the very brink of the grave, and ask me again «why I lied 
to him! His hope of heaven is scarce less sacred to him than 
rs his love of the King, and both are so tightly wrapped about 
his heart that this knowledge of you would break it. Yes, 
break his heart, I say’ (and he got to his legs), “and you 
would kill him for the sake of a boyish fancy!” 

I knew he was acting, as well as though he had climbed 

20 upon the table and said it. And yet he had struck the very 
note of my own fears, and hit upon the one reason why [ 
had not confessed long ago. 

“There is more you might have said, Mr. Allen,” I rev 
marked presently; “you have a cause fer keeping me under 

2s your instruction, and that is behind all.” | 

He gave me a strange look. © 

“You are too acute by far,” said he; “your imagination 
runs with you. I have said [ like you, and I can teach you 
classics as well as another. Is it not enough to admit that 

30 the money I get for your instruction keeps me in Bla 
pagne!”’ 

*““No, it is not enough,”’ I said stoutly. 

“Then you must guess again, my lad,” he answered with a 
laugh, and left the room with the easy grace that distin- 

35 guished him. 

There was armed peace the rest of my uncle’s visit. They 

departed on the third day. My Aunt Caroline, when she was 


UNDER FALSE COLOURS gl 


not at picquet with Mr. Allen or quarrelling with Mrs. Willis 
or with Grafton himself, yawned without cessation. She de- 
clared in one of her altercations with her lord and master that 
she would lose her wits were they to remain another day, a 
threat that did not seem to move Grafton greatly. Philip ever 5 
maintained the right to pitch it on the side of his own conve- 
nience, and he chose in this instance to come to the rescue of 
his dear mamma, and turned the scales in her favour. He was 
pleased to characterize the Hall as insupportable, and vowed 
that his clothes would be out of fashion before they reached 10 
Rousby Hall, their next stopping-place. ‘To do Philip justice, 
he was more honest a rascal than his father, tho’ | am of the 
opinion that he had not the brain for great craft. And he had 
drawn from his mother a love of baubles which kept his mind 
from scheming. He had little to say to me, and I less to him. rs 

Grafton, as may be supposed, made me distinct advances 
before his departure, perceiving the unwisdom of antagoniz- 
ing me unnecessarily. He had the imprudence once to ask of 
me the facts and figures of the estate; and tho’ ’twas skil- 
fully done by contrasting his own crops in Kent, you may be 20 
sure | was on my guard, and that he got nothing. 

I was near forgetting an incident of their visit which I 
afterward had good cause to remember. The morning of my 
talk with Mr. Allen I went to the stables to see how he had 
used Cynthia, and found old Harvey wiping her down, and 25 
rumbling the while like a crater. 

“What think you of the rector as a representative of 
heaven, Harvey?” I asked. 

“Him a representative of heaven!” he snorted; “I’ve heard 
tell of rotten boroughs, and I’m thinking Mr. Allen will be 30 
standing for one. What be him and Mr? Grafton adoing 
here, sir, plotting all kinds o’ crime while the old gentle- 
man’s nigh on his back?” 

"Plotting?" I said, catching at the word. 

“Ay, plotting,” repeated Harvey, casting his cloth away; 3s 

“murder and all the crimes in the palendere I take it. I hear 
him and Mr. Grafton among the stalls this morning, and 


g2 RICHARD CARVEL 


when they sees me they look like Knipe, here, caught with a 
fowl.” 
‘And what were they saying?” I demanded. | 
“Saying! God only knows their wickedness. I got the 
s words ‘Upper Marlboro’’ and ‘South River’ and ‘next voy- 
age, and that profligate rector wanted to know as to how 
“Griggs was reliable.’”’ 
I thought no more of it at the time, believing it to be 
some of the small rascalities they were forever at. But that 
rohame of Griggs (why, the powers only know) stuck in my 
mind to turn up again. 





CHAPTER X 


THE RED IN THE CARVEL BLOOD 


AFTER that, when we went back to Annapolis for the 
winter, there was no longer any disguise between my tutor 
and myself. I was not of a mind to feign a situation that did 
not exist, nor to permit him to do so. I gave him to under- 
stand that, tho’ I went to him for instruction, ’twas through 5 
no fault of mine. That I would learn what I pleased and do 
what pleased me. And the rector, a curse upon him, seemed 
well content with that; nor could I come at his devil’s reason 
for wanting me, save for the money, as he had declared. 
There were days when he and I[ never touched a book, both 10 
being out of humour for study, when he told me yarns of 
Frederick of Prussia and his giant guard, of Florence and of 
Venice, and of the court of his Holiness of Rome. For he-had 
drifted about the earth like a log-end in the Atlantic, before 
his Lordship gave him his present berth. We passed, too, rs 
whole mornings at picquet, I learning enough of Horace to 
quote at the routes we both attended, but a deal more of kings 
and deuces. And this I may add, that he got no more of my 
‘money than did I of his. 

_ The wonder of it was that we never became friends. He 20 
“was two men, this rector of St. Anne’s, half of him as lovable 
as any I ever encountered. But trust him I never would, al- 
ways meeting him on the middle ground; and there were 
times, after his talks with Grafton, when his eyes were like a 
-cat’s, and I was conscious of a sinister note in his dealing 25 
which put me on my guard. 

You will say, my dears, that some change had come over 
me; that I was no longer the same lad I have been telling you 
of. Those days were not these, yet | make no show of hiding 


93 


94 RICHARD CARVEL 
2 


or of palliation. Was it Dorothy’s conduct that drove me 
Not wholly. A wild red was ever in the Carvel blood, in 
Captain Jack, in Lionel, in the ancestor of King Charles’s 
day, who fought and bled and even gambled for his king. And 
smy grandfather knew this; he warned me, but he paid my 
debts. And I thank Heaven he felt that my heart was right. ~ 

I was grown now, certainly in stature. And having man- 
aged one of the largest plantations in the province, I felt 
the man, as lads are wont after their first responsibilities. T 

ro commanded my wine at the Coffee House with the best of the 
bucks, and was made a member of the South River and 
Jockey clubs. I wore the clothes that came out to me from 
London, and vied in fashion with Dr. Courtenay and other 
macaronies. And I drove a carriage of mine own, the Carvel 
rs arms emblazoned thereon, and Hugo in the family livery. — 

After a deal of thought upon the subject, I decided, for a 
while at least, to show no political leanings at all. And this 
was easier of accomplishment than you may believe, for at 
that time in Maryland Tory and Whig were amiable enough, 

2oand the young gentlemen of the first families dressed alike 
and talked alike at the parties they both attended. The non- 
importation association had scarce made itself felt in the 
dress of society. Gentlemen of degree discussed differences 
amicably over their decanters. And only on such occasions 

25 as Mr. Hood’s return, and the procession of the Lower House 
through the streets, and the arrival of the Good Intent, did 
high words arise among the quality. And it was because 
class distinctions were so strongly marked that it took so 
long to bring loyalists and patriots of high rank to the 

30 sword’s point. 

I found time to manage such business affairs of Mr. Car- 
vel’s as he could not attend to himself. Grafton and his fam: 
ily dined in Marlboro’ Street twice in the week; my uncle’s 
conduct toward me was the very soul of consideration; and he 

35 compelled that likewise from his wife and his son. So circum: 
spect was he that he would have fooled one who knew him; 
whit less than I. He questioned me closely upon my studies 


a 


| 


THE RED IN THE. CARVEL BLOOD 95 


and in my grandfather’s presence I was forced to answer. . 
And when the rector came to dine and read to Mr. Carvel, my 
uncle catechised him so searchingly on my progress that he 
was pushed to the last source of his ingenuity for replies. 
More than once was | tempted to blurt out the whole wretched 5 
business, for I well understood there was some deep game be- 
tween him and Grafton. In my uncle’s absence, my aunt 
never lost a chance for an ill-natured remark upon Patty,. 
whom she had seen that winter at the assemblies and else- 
where. And she deplored the state our people of fashion were 10 
coming to, that they allowed young girls without family to 
attend their balls. 

“But we can expect little else, father,’ she would say to - 
Mr. Carvel nodding in his chair, “‘when some of our best 
families openly espouse the pernicious doctrines of republi- zs 
canism. They are gone half mad over that Wilkes, who 
should have been hung before this. Philip, dear, pour the 
wine for your grandfather.” 

Miss Patty had.been well received. I took her to her first 
assembly, where her simple and unassuming ways had made zo 
her an instant favourite; and her face, which had the beauty 
of dignity and repose even so early in life, gained her ample 
attention. I think she would have gone but little had not 
her father laughed her out of some of her domesticity. No 
longer at Sunday night supper in Gloucester Street was the 25 
guest seat empty. There was more than one guest seat now, 
and the honest barrister himself was the most pleased at the 
change. As I took my accustomed place on the settle cushion, 
—Patty’s hrst embroidery,—he would cry:— 

“Heigho, Richard, our little Miss Prim hath become a belle. 30 
And I must have another clerk now to copy out my briefs, 
and a housekeeper soon, 1’ faith.” 

_ Patty would never fail to flush up at the words, and run 
to perch on her father’s knee and put her hand over his mouth. 

“How can you, Mr. Swain?’ says she; “how can you, 35 
when ‘tis you and mother, and Richard here, who make me 
go into the world? You know I would a thousand times 






96 RICHARD CARVEL 


rather bake your cakes and clean your silver! But you willl 
not hear of it.’ 

“Fie!” says the barrister. ‘‘Listen to her, Richard! And 
yet she will fly up the stairs to don a fine gown at the first) 

srap of the knocker. Oh, the wenches, the wenches! Are 
they not all alike, mother ?” 

“They have changed none since I was a lass,” replies the 
quiet invalid, with a smile. “And you should know what 
I was, Henry? 

1 ‘Know!’ cries he; “none better. Well I recall the salmon - 
and white your mother gave you before I came to Salem.” 
He sighed and then laughed at the recollection. “And when 
this strapping young Singleton comes, Richard, *twould do 
you good to be hiding there in that cupboard, —and it would 

ts hold “you,—and count the seconds until Miss Prim has her 
skirt in her hand and her foot on the lower step. And yet 
how innocent is she now before you and me.” 

Here he would invariably be smothered. ‘ 

“Percy Singleton!” says Patty, with a fine scorn; “twill 

20 be Mr. Eglinton, the curate, next.’ | 

“This I know,” says her father, slapping me on the shoals 
der, “this I know, that you are content to see Richard with= 
out primping.’ f 

“But I have known Richard since I was six,” says shes 

s ‘Richard is one of the family. ‘There is no need of diss 
atic from him.” 

I thought, ruefully enough, that it seemed my fate to be 
one of the family everywhere | went. ‘ 

And just then, as if in judgment, the gate snapped and the 

30 knocker sounded, and Patty leaped down with a blush. 
“What did I say?” cries the barrister. “I have not see 
human nature in court for naught. Run, now,” says . 
pinching her cheek as she stood hesitating whether to fly or 
stay; “run and put on the new dress I have bought you. 

3s And Richard and I will have a cup of ale in the study.” 

The visitor chanced to be Will Fotheringay that time. He 
was not the only one worn out with the mad chase in Princ 


. | 






THE RED IN THE CARVEL BLOOD 97 


George Street, and preferred a quiet evening with a quiet 
beauty to the crowded lists of Miss Manners. Will declared 
that the other gallants were fools over the rare touch of blue 
in the black hair: give him Miss Swain’s, quoth he, lifting 
his glass,—hers was the colour of a new sovereign. Will was 
not the only one. But I think Percy Singleton was the best 
‘of them all, tho’ Patty ridiculed him every chance she got, 
and even to his face. So will the best-hearted and soberest 
of women play the coquette. Singleton was rather a reserved 
young Englishman of four and twenty, who owned a large 
‘estate in Lalbot, which he was laying out with great success. 
Of a Whig family in the old country, he had been drawn to 
that party in the new, and so had made Mr. Swain’s acquaint- 
‘ance. The next step in his fortunes was to fall in love with 
Patty, which was natural enough. Many a night that winter 
I walked with him from Gloucester Street to the Coffee 
House, to sit an hour over:a bottle. And there Master Tom 
and Dr. Hamilton and other gay macaronies would sometimes 
join us. Singleton had a greater contempt for Tom than I but 
bore with him for his sister’s sake. For Tom, 1m addition to his 
other follies, was become an open loyalist, and never missed 
his Majesty’s health, though he knew no better than my Hugo 
the question at issue. “Iwas not zeal! for King George, how- 
ever, that made him drunk at one of the assemblies, and 
forced his sister to leave in the midst of a dance for very 
shame. 

“Oh, Richard, is there not something you can do?’ she 
cried, when I had got her back in the little parlour in Glou- 
cester Street; “father has argued and pleaded and threatened 
in vain. | thought,—I thought perhaps you might help him.” 

“T think I am not one to preach, or to boast,” I replied 
soberly. 

“Yes,” said she, looking grave; “J know you are wilder 
than you used to be; that you play more than you ought, and 
higher than you ought.” 

I was silent. 

“And I suspect at whose door it lies,” said she. 





oS 


5 


390 


35 


98 RICHARD CARVEL 


‘Tis in the blood, Patty,” I answered. 
She glanced at me quickly. ; 

“I know you better than you think,” she said. “But Tom 
has not your excuse. And if he had only your faults I would” 

5 say nothing. He does not care for those he should, and he is 
forever in the green-room of the theatre.” . 
I made haste to change the subject, and to give her what 
comfort I might; for she was sobbing before she finished. 
And the next day I gave Tom a round talking-to for having so 
ro little regard for his sister, the hem of whose skirt he was not 
worthy to touch. He took it meekly enough, with a barrel of 
pet excuses to come after. And he asked me to lend him my 
phaeton, that he might go a-driving with Miss Crane, of the 
theatrical company, to Round Bay! a 
1s; Meanwhile I saw Miss Manners more frequently than was 
good for my peace of mind, and had my turn as her partner 
at the balls. But I could not bring myself to take third of 
fourth rank in the army that attended her. I, who had beer 
her playmate, would not become her courtier. Besides, I had 
20 not the wit. — 
Was it strange that Dr. Courtenay should pride himself 
upon the discovery of a new beauty? And in the Coffee 
House, and in every drawing-room in town, prophesy for het 

a career of conquest such as few could boast? She was a 
25 ready launched upon that career. And rumour had it that Mr 
Marmaduke was even then considering taking her home to 
London, where the stage was larger and the triumph greatete 
Was it surprising that the Gazette should contain a poem with 
the doctor’s well-known ear-marks upon it? It set the town 
30 a-wagging, and left no room for doubt as to who had inspired 
it. 






















“Sweet Pandora, tho’ formed of Clay, 
Was fairer than the Light of Day. 
By Venus learned in Beauty’s Arts, 
35 And destined thus to conquer Hearts. — 
A Goddess of this Town, I ween, 
Fair as Pandora, scarce Sixteen, - 


THE RED IN THE CARVEL BLOOD 99 


Is destined, e’en by Jove’s Command, 
To conquer all of Maryland. 

Oh, Bachelors, pray have a Care, 

For She will all your Hearts ensnare.” 


_ So it ran. I think, if dear Mrs. Manners could have had 5 
her way, Dolly would have passed that year at a certain 
young ladies’ school in New York. But Mr. Marmaduke’s 
pride in his daughter’s beauty got the better of her. The strut 
in his gait became more marked the day that poem appeared, 
and he went to the Coffee House both morning and evening, 10 
taking snuff to hide his emotions when Miss Manners was 
spoken of; and he was perceived by many in Church Street 
arm in arm with Dr. Courtenay himself. 

As you may have imagined before now, the doctor’s profes- 
sion was leisure, not medicine. He had known ambition once, 15 
it was said, and with reason, for he had studied surgery in 
Germany for the mere love of the science. After which, mak- 
ing the grand tour inFrance and Italy, he had taken up that 
art of being a gentleman in which men became so proficient in 
my young days. He had learned to speak French like a Pari- 20 
sian, had hobnobbed with wit and wickedness from Versailles 
to Rome, and then had come back to Annapolis to set the 
fashions and to spend the fortune his uncle lately had left 
him. He was our censor of beauty, and passed judgment 
apon all young ladies as they stepped into the arena. To be 2s 
noticed by him meant success; to be honoured in the Gazette 
was to be crowned at once a reigning belle. The chord of his 
ipproval once set a-vibrating, all minor chords sang in 
aarmony. And it was the doctor who raised the first public 
+ haha Miss Manners. Alas! I might have known it would 30 ' 
ye so! 

But Miss Dorothy was not of a nature to remain dependent 
pon a censor’s favour. The minx deported herself like any 
~ondon belle of experience, as tho’ she had known the world 
tom her cradle. She was not to be deceived by the face 35 
value of the ladies’ praises, nor rebuked unmercifully by my 
{unt Caroline, who had held the sceptre in the absence of a 

















— 


100 RICHARD CARVEL 


younger aspirant. The first time these ladies clashed, which 
was not long in coming, my aunt met with a wit as sharp again 
as her own, and never afterwards essayed an open tilt. The 
homage of men Dolly took as Czsar received tribute, as a 
s matter of course. The doctor himself rode to the races beside 
the Manners coach, leaning gallantly over the door. My 
lady held court in her father’s box, received and dismissed, 
smiled and frowned, with Courtenay as her master of cere= 
monies. Mr. Dulany was one of the presidents of the Jockey 
ro Club that year, and his horse winning the honours he pre- 
sented her with his colours, scarlet and white, which she 
graciously wore. The doctor swore he would import a horse 
the next season on the chance of the privilege. My aunt was 
furious. I have never mentioned her beauty because I never 
15 could see it. “I'was a coarser type than attracted me. She 
was then not greatly above six and thirty, appearing young 
for that age, and she knew the value of lead in judicious 
quantity. At that meet gentlemen came to her box only to 
talk of Miss Manners, to marvel that one so young could have 
zo the bel air, to praise her beauty and addresse, to remark how 
well Mr. Dulany’s red and white became her. With all of 
which Mrs. Grafton was fain to agree, and must even excel, 
until her small stock of patience was exhausted. To add to 
her chagrin, my aunt lost a pretty sum to the rector by Mr. 
25s Dulany’s horse. I came upon her after the race trying to 
coax her head-dress through her coach door, Mr. Allen having 
tight hold of her hand the while. 
“And so he thinks he has found a divinity, does he?” 1 
overheard her saying. ‘I, for one, am heartily sick of Dr,| 
30 Courtenay’s notions. Were he to choose a wench out of thi 
King’s passengers I’d warrant our macaronies to compose odes| 
to her eyebrows.” And at that moment perceiving me she| 
added, “‘Why so disconsolate, my dear nephew? Miss Dolly 
is the craze now, and will last about as long as another of the 
3s doctor’s whims. And then you shall have her to yourself.” 
“A pretty woman is ever the fashion, Aunt Caroline,” | said 
“‘Hoity-toity,” returned my aunt, who had by then sue 









THE RED IN THE CARVEL BLOOD IOI 


ceeded in getting her head-gear safe within; ‘‘the fashion, yes, 
until a prettier comes along.” 

“There is small danger of that for the present,” I said, 
smiling. “Surely you can find no fault with this choice!’ 

“Gadzooks! If I were blind, sir, I think I might!” she 5 
cried unguardedly. 

“T will not dispute that, Aunt Caroline,” I answered. 

And as I rode off I heard her giving directions in no mild 
tone to the coachman through Mr. Allen. . 

Perchance you did not know, my dears, that Annapolis had 10 
the first theatre in all the colonies. And if you care to search 
through the heap of Maryland Gazettes in the garret, I make 
no doubt you will come across this announcement for a cer- 
tain night in the spring of the year 1769:— 

By Permission of his Excellency, the Governor, a 
at the New Theatre in Annapolis, 
by the American Company of Comedians, on Monday 
next, being the 22nd of this Instant, will be performed 


ROMEO AND JULIET. 
(Romeo by a young Gentleman for his Diversion.) 
Likewise the Farce called 
Miss IN HER TEENS. 
To begin precisely at Seven of the Clock. Tickets 
to be had at the Printing Office. Box tos. Pit 1s 6d. 
No Person to be admitted behind the Scenes. 25 


20 


The gentleman to perform Romeo was none other than Dr. 
Courtenay himself. He had a gentlemanly passion for the 
Stage, as was the fashion in those days, and had organized 
many private theatricals. The town was in a ferment over 
the event, boxes being taken a week ahead. The doctor him- 30 
self writ the epilogue, to be recited by the beautiful Mrs. 
Hallam, who had inspired him the year before to compose 
that famous poem beginning:— 


“Around her see the Graces play, 35 
See Venus’ Wanton doves, 
And in her Eye’s Pellucid Ray 


Je 


102 RICHARD CARVEL 


See little Laughing Loves. 
Ye gods! ’Tis Cytherea’s Face.” 
You may find that likewise in Mr. Green’s newspaper. 

The new theatre was finished in West Street that spring, 

sthe old one having proven too small for our gay capital. 
’Twas then the best in the New World, the censor having 
pronounced it far above any provincial playhouse he had seen 
abroad. The scenes were very fine, the boxes carved and 
gilded in excellent good taste, and both pit and gallery com- 

tomodious. And we, too, had our ‘‘Fops’ Alley,” where our 
macaronies ogled the fair and passed from box to box. 

For that night of nights when the doctor acted I received 
an invitation from Dolly to Mr. Marmaduke’s box, and to 
supper afterward in Prince George Street. When I arrived, 

rs the playhouse was lit with myriad candles,—to be snuffed 
save the footlights presently,—and the tiers were all brilliant 
with the costumes of ladies and gentlemen. Miss Tayloe and 
Miss Dulany were of our party, with Fitzhugh and Worth- 
ington, and Mr. Manners for propriety. The little fop spent 

20 his evening, by the way, in a box opposite, where my Aunt 
Caroline gabbled to him and Mr. Allen during the whole per- 
formance. My lady got more looks than any in the house. 
She always drew admiration, indeed, but there had been 
much speculation of late whether she favoured Dr. Courtenay 

2s or Fitzhugh, and some had it that the doctor’s acting would 
decide between the two. 

When Romeo came upon the stage he was received with 
loud applause. But my lady showed no interest,—not she,— 
while the doctor fervently recited, ““Out of her favour, where 

301 am in love.” In the first orchard scene, with the boldness 
of a practised lover, he almost ignored Mrs. Hallam in the 
balcony. It seemed as though he cast his burning words and 
languishing glances at my lady in the box, whereupon there 
was a deal of nudging round about. Miss asked for het 

35 smelling salts, and declared the place was stifling. But ] 
think if the doctor had cherished a hope of her affections he 
lost it when he arrived at the lines, “she speaks, yet she sa 





THE RED IN THE CARVEL BLOOD 103 


nothing.” At that unhappy moment Miss Dorothy was deep 
in conversation with Fitzhugh, the audible titter in the audi- 
ence arousing her. How she reddened when she perceived 
the faces turned her way! 
“What was it, Betty?” she demanded quickly. tA Oe 
But Betty was not spiteful, and would not tell. Fitzhugh 
himself explained, and to his sorrow, for during the rest of the 
evening she would have nothing to do with him. Presently 
she turned to me. Glancing upward to where Patty leaned on 
the rail between Will Fotheringay and Singleton, she whis- 10 
ered :-— 
; “J wonder you can sit here so quiet, Richard. You are 
showing a deal of self-denial.” 
“IT am happy enough,” I answered, surprised. 
“T hear you have a rival,” says she. 15 
“TI know I have a dozen,” I answered. 
—“T saw Percy Singleton walking with her in Mr. Gallo- 
way’s fields but yesterday,” said Dolly, “and as they came 
vut upon the road they looked as guilty as if [ had surprised 
them arm in arm.” 20 
Now that she should think I cared for Patty never entered 
ny head. I was thrown all in a heap. | 
“You need not be so disturbed,” whispers my lady. “Single- 
‘on has a crooked mouth, and I credit Patty with ample 
iense to choose between you. I adore her, Richard. I wish 2; 
had her sweet ways.” 
~ “But,” I interrupted, when I was somewhat recovered, 
“why should you think me in love with Patty? I have never 
een accused of that before.” 
“Oh, fie! You deny her?” says Dolly. ‘I did not think 30 
hat of you, Richard.” 
“You should know better,” I replied, with some bitterness. 
We were talking in low tones, Dolly with her head turned 
rom the stage, whence the doctor was flinging his impas- 
ioned speeches in vain. And though the light fell not ;. 
pon her face, I seemed to feel her looking me through and 
hrough. 









104 RICHARD CARVEL © 


“You do not care for Patty?” she whispered. And I thought 
a quiver of earnestness was in her voice. Her face was so 
close to mine that her breath fanned my cheek. 
“No,” I said. “Why do you ask me? Have I ever been 
5 one to make pretences !”’ 
She turned away.. 
“But you,” I said, bending to her ear, “is it Fitzhugh, 
Dorothy?” 
I heard her laugh softly. 
ro “No,” said she, “I thought you might divine, sir.” 
Was it possible? And yet she had played so much with 
me that I dared not risk the fire. She had too many accom- 
plished gallants at her feet to think of Richard, who had no 
novelty and no wit. I sat still, barely conscious of the rising 
x5 and falling voices beyond the footlights, feeling only her liv- 
ing presence at my side. She spoke not another word until 
the playhouse servants had relighted the chandeliers, and Dr. 
Courtenay came in, flushed with triumph, for his mead of 
praise. | 
20 “And how went it, Miss Manners?” says he, very confident. 
“Why, you fell over the orchard wall, doctor,” retorts my 
lady. “La! I believe I could have climbed it better myself.” 
And all he got was a hearty laugh for his pains, Mr. Mar- 
maduke joming in from the back of the box. And the stom 
25 was at the Coffee House early on the morrow. 





CHAPTER XI 


| A FESTIVAL AND A PARTING 


__ My grandfather and I were seated at table together. It 
‘was early June, the birds were singing in the garden, and 
‘the sweet odours of the flowers were wafted into the room. 
__ “Richard,” says he, when Scipio had poured his claret, 
“my illness cheated you out of your festival last year, I; 
[ swear you deem yourself too old for birthdays now. 
I laughed. 
“So it is with lads,” said Mr. Carvel; “‘they will rush into 
‘manhood as heedless as you please. Take my counsel, boy, 
and remain young. Do not cross the bridge before you have ro 
to. And I have been thinking that we shall have your féte 
‘this year, albeit you are grown, and Miss Dolly is the belle of 
the province. “Tis like sunshine into my old heart to see the 
lads and lasses again, and to hear the merry, merry fiddling. 
IT will have his new Excellency, who seems a good and a kindly ;; 
‘man, and Lloyd. and Tilehman and Dulany ak the rest, with 
their ladies, to sit with me. And there will be plenty of punch 
‘and syllabub and sangaree, I warrant; and tarts and jellies 
and custards, too, for. the misses. Ring for Mrs. Willis, my 
‘son.’ nis 

Willis came with her curtsey to the old gentleman, who 
gave his order then and there. He never waited for a fancy 
of this kind to grow cold. 
| “We shall all be children again, on that day, Mrs. Willis,” 
‘says he. “And I catch any old people about, they shall be 2. 
thrust straight in the town stocks, 1’ faith.” 

Willis made another curtsey. 

“We missed it sorely, last year, please your honour,” says 
bi and departs smiling. 


| 105 


| 


106 RICHARD CARVEL 


“And you shall have your Patty Swain, Richard,” Mr. Car- 
vel continued. ‘Do you mind how you once asked the favour 
of inviting her in the place of a present? Oons! I loved 
you for that, boy. “Iwas like a Carvel. And I love that lass, 

s Whig or no Whig. ’Pon my soul, I do. She hath demure- 
ness and dignity, and suits me better than yon whimsical 
baggage you are all mad over. [ll have Mr. Swain beside 
me, too. [ll warrant I'll teach his daughter loyalty 1 ia dayg 
and I had again your years and your spirit!” 

ro I have but to close my eyes, and my fancy takes me back to 
that birthday festival. Think of it, my dears! Near three- 
score years are gone since then, when this old man you call 
grandfather, and some—bless me!—great-grandfather, was a 
lusty lad like Comyn here. But his hand is steady as he 

rs writes these words and his head clear, because he hath not 
greatly disabused that life which God has given him. 

How can I, tho’ her face and form are painted on my mem= 
ory, tell you ‘what fair, pert Miss Dorothy was at that time? 
Ay, I know what you would say: that Sir Joshua’s portrait 

20 hangs above, executed but the year after, and hung at the sec- 
ond exhibition of the Royal Academy. As I look upon it now, 
I say that no whit of its colour is overcharged. And there is 
likewise Mr. Peale’s portrait, done much later. I answer that 
these great masters have accomplished what poor, human art 
25can do. But Nature hath given us a better picture. “Come 
hither, Bess! Yes, truly, you have Dolly’s hair, with the very 
gloss upon it. But fashions have changed, my child, and that 
is not as Dolly wore it.”” Whereupon Bess goes to the por- 
trait, and presently comes back to give me a start. And then 
30 we go hand in hand up the stairs of Calvert House even to the 
garret, where an old cedar chest is laid away under the eaves. 
Bess, the minx, well knows it, and takes out a prim little gown 
with the white fading yellow, and white silk mits without’ 
fingers, and white stockings with clocks, and a gauze cap, with, 
35 Wings and streamers, that sits saucily on the black locks; and 
the lawn-embroidered apron; and such dainty, high- heeled 
slippers with the pearls still a-glisten upon the buckles. Away 


i 


A FESTIVAL AND A PARTING 107 


she flies to put them on. And then my heart gives a leap to 
see my Dorothy back again,—back again as she was that June 
afternoon we went together to my last birthday party, her 
girlish arms bare to the elbow, and the lace about her slender 
throat. Yes, Bess hath the very tilt of her chin, the regal 
grace of that slim figure, and the deep blue eyes. 

“Grandfather, dear, you are crushing the gown!” 

And so the fire is not yet gone out of this old frame. 

Ah, yes, there they are again, those unpaved streets of old 
Annapolis arched with great trees on either side. And here 
as Dolly, holding her skirt in one hand and her fan in the 
other, and | in a brave blue coat, and pumps with gold but- 
‘tons, and a cocked hat of the newest fashion. I had met her 
‘leaning over the gate in Prince George Street. And, what 
was strange for her, so deep in thought that she jumped 15 
when I spoke her name. 

“Dorothy, | have come for you to walk to the party, as we 
used when we were children.” 
_ “As we used when we were children!’ cried she. And 
flinging wide the gate, stretched out her hand for me to take. 20 
“And you are eighteen years to-day! It seems but last year 
when we skipped ‘hand in hand to Marlboro’ Street with Mam- 
my Lucy behind us. Are you coming, mammy?”’ she called. 
“Yes, mistis, I’se comin’, said a voice from behind the 
“golden-rose bushes, and out stepped Aunt Lucy in a new tur- 25 
'ban, making a curtsey to me. “La, Marse Richard!” said 
‘she, “to think you’se growed to be a fine gemman! ’Tain’ t 
but other day you was kissin’ Miss Dolly on de plantation.” 
_ “Tt seems longer than that to me, Aunt Lucy,” I answered, 
Jaughing at Dolly’s blushes. 30 
| “You have too good a memory, mammy,” said my lady, 
withdrawing her fingers from mine. 
| hee you, honey! De ole woman doan’t forgit some 
‘things 
ij Bod she fell back to a respectful six paces. 


wm 


Leal 


° 








“Those were happy times,’ said Dorothy. Then the aiey 
sigh became a laugh. “I mean to enjoy myself to-day, 


Pi 


108 RICHARD CARVEL 


Richard. But I fear I shall not see as much of you as I used. 
You are old enough to play the host, now.” | 
“You shall see as much as you will.” 
“Where have you been of late, sir? In Gloucester Street?” 
“?’Tis your own fault, Dolly. You are changeable as the 
sky,—to-day sunny, and to-morrow cold. I am sure of my 
welcome in Gloucester Street.” . 
She tripped a step as we turned the corner, and came 
closer to my side. 
ro ‘* You must learn to take me as you find me, dear Richard. 
To-day I am in a holiday humour.” | 
Some odd note in her tone troubled me, and I glanced at 
her quickly. She was a constant wonder and puzzle to me. 
After that night at the theatre my hopes had risen for the 
rs hundredth time, but I had gone to Prince George Street on 
the morrow to meet another rebuff—and Fitzhugh. So I had 
learned to interpret her by other means than words, and now 
her mood seemed reckless rather than merry. 
“‘Are you not happy, Dolly?” I asked abruptly. 
20 She laughed. “What a silly question!” she said. “Why 
do you ask?” . 
“Because I believe you are not.” 
In surprise she looked up at me, and then down at the 
pearls upon her satin slippers. 
; ‘Iam going with you to your birthday festival, Richard, 
Could we wish for more? I am as happy as you.” 
“That may well be, for I might be happier.” 
Again her eyes met mine, and she hummed an air. So we 
came to the gate, beside which stood Diomedes and Hugo 
30 in the family claret-red. A coach was drawn up, and anothet 
’ behind it, and we went down the leafy walk in the midst of a 
bevy of guests. i” 
We have no such places nowadays, my dears, as was my 
grandfather’s. The ground between the street and the brick 
35 wall in the rear was a great stretch, as ample in acreage as 
many a small country-place we have in these times. The 
house was on the high land in front, hedged in by old trees, 


to 


A FESTIVAL AND A PARTING 109 


and thence you descended by stately tiers until you came to | 
the level which held the dancers. Beyond that, and lower 
still, a lilied pond widened out of the sluggish brook with a 
cool and rustic spring-house at one end. The spring-house 
was thatched, with windows looking out upon the water. 5 
Long after, when I went to France, I was reminded of the 
shy beauty of this part of my old home by the secluded pond 
of the Little Trianon. So was it that King Louis’s Ver- 
sailles had spread its influence a thousand leagues to our 
youthful continent. Io 

My grandfather sat in his great chair on the sward beside 
the fiddlers, his old friends gathering around him, as in former 

ears. 
+ “And this is the miss that hath already broken half the 
bachelor hearts in town!’ said he, gayly. “‘What was my rs 
prediction, Miss Dolly, when you stepped your first dance at 
Carvel Hall?” 

“Indeed, you do me wrong, Mr. Carvel 
“And I were a buck, you would not break mine, I warrant, 
unless it were tit for tat,” said my grandfather; thereby 20 
putting me to more confusion than Dolly, who laughed with 
the rest. 
| **Tis well to boast, Mr. Carvel, when we are out of the 
battle,” cried Mr. Lloyd. 

Dolly was carried off immediately, as I expected. The 2s 
doctor and Worthington and Fitzhugh were already there, 
and waiting. I stood by Mr. Carvel’s chair, receiving the 
guests, and presently came Mr. Swain and Patty. 
| “Heigho!”’ called Mr. Carvel, when he saw her; “‘here is 
the young lady that hath my old affections. You are right 30 
welcome, Mr. Swain. Scipio, another chair! *Tis not over 
the wall.any more, Miss Patty, with our flowered India silk. 
But I vow I love you best with your étui.” | 

Patty, too, was carried off, for you may be sure that Will 
Fothermgay and Singleton were standing on one foot and then 35 
the other, waiting for Mr. Carvel to have done. Next arrived 
my aunt, in a wide calash and a wider hoop, her stays laced 


g 


!?? 













i 
4 


110 RICHARD CARVEL / ' 


so that she limped, and her hair wonderfully and fearfully 
arranged by her Frenchman. Neither she nor Grafton was 
slow to shower congratulations upon my grandfather and 
myself. Mr. Marmaduke went through the ceremony after 
sthem. Dorothy’s mother drew me aside. As long as I could re= 
member her face had been one that revealed a life’s disappoit= 
ment. But to-day I thought it bore a trace of a deeper anxiety, 
“How well I recall this day, eighteen years ago, Richard,” 
she said. “And how proud your dear mother was that she 
ro had given a son to Captain Jack. She had prayed for a son, 
I hope you will always do your parents credit, my dear boy. 
They were both dear, dear friends of mine.” 
My Aunt Caroline’s harsher voice interrupted her. 
“‘Gadzooks, ma’am!” she cried, as she approached us, “I 
ts have never in my life laid eyes upon such beauty as your 
daughter’s. You will have to take her home, Mrs. Manners, 
to do her justice. You owe it her, ma’am. Come, nephew, 
off with you, and head the minuet with Miss Dolly!’ 
My grandfather was giving the word to the fiddlers. But 
20 whether a desire to cross my aunt held me back, or a sense of 
duty to greet the guests not already come, or a vague intuk 
tion of some impending news drawn from Mrs. Manners and 
Dorothy, I know not. Mr. Fitzhugh was easily persuaded 
to take my place, and presently I slipped unnoticed into a 
2s shaded seat on the side of the upper terrace, whence I could 
see the changing figures on the green. And | thought of the 
birthday festivals Dolly and I had spent here, almost since we 
were of an age to walk. Wet June days, when the broad 
wings of the house rang with the sound of silver laughter and 
3opattering feet, and echoed with music from the hall; and 
merry June days, when the laughter rippled among the lilacs, 
and pansies and poppies and sweet peas were outshone by 
bright gowns and brighter faces. And then, as if to complete 
the picture of the past, my eye fell upon our mammies mod- 
3sestly seated behind the group of older people, Aunt Hester 
and Aunt Lucy, their honest black faces aglow with such 
unselfish enjoyment as they alone could feel. : 


F 


A FESTIVAL AND A PARTING III 


How easily I marked Dorothy among the throng! 

Other girls found it hard to compress the spirits of youth 
within the dignity of a minuet, and thought of the childish 
romp of former years. Not so my lady. Long afterwards I 
saw her lead a ball with the first soldier and gentleman of the 
land, but on that Tuesday she carried herself full as well,— 
so well that his Excellency and the gentlemen about him ap- 
plauded heartily. As the strains died away and the couples 
moved off among the privet-lined paths, I went slowly down 
the terrace. Dorothy had come up to speak to her mother, 
Dr. Courtenay lingering impatiently-at her side. And though 
her colour glowed deeper, and the wind had loosed a wisp of 
her hair, she took his Excellency’s compliments undisturbed. 
Colonel Sharpe, our former governor, who now made his 
home in the province, sat beside him. 

“Now where a-deuce were you, Richard?” said he. “You 
have missed as pleasing a sight as comes to a man in a life- 
time. Why were you not here to see Miss Manners tread a 
minuet? My word! Terpsichore herself could scarce have 
made it go better.” 

“T saw the dance, sir, from a safe distance,”’ I replied. 

“Tl warrant!” said he, laughing, while Dolly shot me a 
wayward glance from under her long lashes. “TP Il warrant 
your eyes were fast on her from beginning to end. Come, sir, 
confess!” 

His big frame shook with the fun of it, for none in the 
colony could be jollier than he on holiday occasions: and 
the group of ladies and gentlemen beside him caught the in- 
fection, so that I was sore put to it. 

“Will your Excellency confess likewise?’ I demanded. 

*So I will, Richard, and make patent to all the world that 
she hath the remains of that shuttlecock, my heart.” 

Up gets his Excellency (for so we still called him) and 
makes Dolly a low reverence, kissing the tips of her white 
fingers. My lady drops a mock curtsey in return. 
~ “Your Excellency can do no less than sue for a dance,” 
drawled Dr. Courtenay. 


i 


5 


Io 


TS 


20 


25 


30 


35 


: 


y 
J 


112 RICHARD CARVEL 


‘And no more, I fear, sir, not being so nimble as I once 
was. I resign in your favour, doctor,” said Colonel Sharpe, 
Dr. Courtenay made his bow, his hat tucked under his arm, 
But he had much to learn of Miss Manners if he thought 
5 that even one who had been governor of the province could 
command her. The music was just begun again, and | 
making off in the direction of Patty Swain, when I was 
brought up as suddenly as by a rope. A curl was upon 
Dorothy’ s lips. 
ro ‘The dance belongs to Richard, doctor,” she said. 

““Egad, Courtenay, there you have a buffer!” cried Colonel 
Sharpe, as the much-discomfited doctor bowed with a very ill 
grace; while I, in no small bewilderment, walked off with 
Dorothy. And a parting shot of the delighted colonel brought 

ts the crimson to my face. Like the wind of April weather was 
my lady, and her ways far beyond such a great simpleton as I. 

“So I am ever forced to ask you to dance!” said Dolly. 
“What were you about, moping off alone, with a party in youl 
honour, sir!” 

20 ‘I was watching you, as I told his Excellency.” 

“Oh, fie!’ she cried. “Why don’t you assert yourself, 
Richard? There was a time when you gave me no peace.” — 

“And then you rebuked me for dangling,” I retorted. 

Up started the music, the fiddlers bending over their bows 

25 with flushed faces, having dipped into the cool punch in the 
interval. Away flung my lady to meet Singleton, while I 
swung Patty, who squeezed my hand in return. And soon we 
were in the heat of it,—sober minuet no longer, but romp and 
riot, the screams of the lasses a-mingle with our own laughter, 

3o as we spun them until there were dizzy. My brain was a-whirl 
as well, and presently I awoke to find Dolly pinching my arm. 

“Have you, forgotten me, Richard?” she whispered. ‘“ 
other hand, sir. It is ‘down the middle.’ ” 

Down we flew between the laughing lines. Dolly ee 

35 with her head high, and then back under the clasped hands 
in the midst of a fire of raillery. Then the music stoppeg 
Some strange exhilaration was in Dorothy. 


A FESTIVAL AND A PARTING 113 


“To you remember the place where I used to play fairy 
rodmother, and wind the flowers into my hair?” said she. 

What need to ask? 

“Come!” she commanded decisively. 

“With all my heart!” I exclaimed, wondering at this new 5 
raprice. 

“If we can but slip away unnoticed, they will never find 
as there,’ she said. And led the way herself, silent. At 
length we came to the damp shade where the brook dived 
ander the corner of the wall. I stooped to gather the lilies 10 
of the valley, and she wove them into her hair as of old. 
Suddenly she stopped, the bunch poised in her hand. 

“Would you miss me if | went away, Richard?’ she asked, 
na low voice. 

_ “What do you mean, Dolly?” I cried, my voice failing. Is 

“Just that,” said she. 

“. would miss you, and sorely, tho’ you give me trouble 
enough.” 

“Soon I shall not be here to trouble you, Richard. Papa has 
Jecided that we sail next week, on the Annapolis, for home.” 20 

“Home!” I gasped. “England?” 

“T am going to make my bow to royalty,” replied she, 
dropping a deep curtsey. “““Your Majesty, this is Miss Man- 
ners, of the province of Maryland!’ ” 

“But next week!” [ repeated, with a blank face. “Surely 25 
you cannot be ready for the Annapolis!” 

“McAndrews has instructions to send our things after,” 
said she. ‘‘There! You are the first person I have told. 
You should feel honoured, sir.” 

I sat down upon the grass by the brook, and for the mo- 30 
ment the sap of life seemed to have left me. Dolly continued 
to twine the flowers. Through the trees sifted the voices and 
the music, sounds of happiness far away. When I looked 
up again, she was gazing into the water. - 

“Are you glad to go?” I asked. 35 

“Of course,” answered the minx, readily. “I shall see the 
world, and meet people of consequence.” 





Be i 


114 RICHARD CARVEL | ; 


te you are going to England to meet people of conses 
quence!” I cried bitterly. : 
“How provincial you are, Richard! What people of conse- 
quence have we here? The Governor and the honourable 
s members of his Council, forsooth! There is not a title save 
his Excellency’s in our whole colony, and Virginia 1s scarce 
better provided.” 
In spite of my feeling I was fain to laugh at this, knowing 
well that she had culled it all from little Mr. Marmaduke 
ro himself. 
“All in good time,” said J. ‘We shall have no lack of 
noted men presently.” 
“‘Mere twopenny heroes,” she retorted. “I know your great 
men, such as Mr. Henry and Dr. Franklin and Mr. Adams.” 
ts 1 began pulling up the grass savagely by the roots. 
rit lay a hundred guineas you have no regrets at leaving 
any of us, my fine miss!” J cried, getting to my feet. “You 
would rather be a lady of fashion than have the love of an 
honest man,—you who have the hearts of too many as it 1s.” 
20 Her eyes lighted, but with mirth. Laughing, she chose a 
little bunch of the lilies and worked them 1 into my coat. 
“Richard, you silly goose!’ she said; “I dote upon cco 
you in a temper.’ 
I stood between anger and God knows what other faclingle 
25 now starting away, now coming back to her. But I always 
came back. 
+ You have ever said you would marry an earl, Dolly,” I said 
sadly. “I believe you do not care for any of us one little bit.” 
She turned away, so that for the moment I could not see 
30 her face, then looked at me with exquisite archness over her 
shoulder. The low tones of her voice’ were of a richness 
indescribable. *ITwas seldom she made use of them. 
“You will be coming to Oxford, Richard.” 
“TI fear not, Dolly,” I replied soberly. “I fear not, now. 
35 Mr. Carvel is too feeble for me to leave him.” 
At that she turned to me, another mood coming like a cust 
of wind on the Chesapeake. 


A ey 
“§ 

f 

? 


| 


A FESTIVAL AND A PARTING lis 


“Oh, how I wish they were all like you!” she cried, with a 
‘stamp of her foot. “Sometimes I despise gallantry. I hate 
‘the smooth compliments of your macaronies. I thank Heaven 
you are big and honest and clumsy and—”’ 

“And what, Dorothy?” I asked, bewildered. : 
“And stupid,” said she. “Now take me back, sir.” 

We had not gone thirty paces before we heard a hearty bass 
lvoice singing :— 








; ‘Tt was a lover and his lass, 
With a hey, with a ho, with a hey nonino.’ ro 


| And there was Colonel Sharpe, straying along among the 
\privet hedges. 

And so the morning of her sailing came, so full of sadness 
for me. Why not confess, after nigh threescore years, that 
break of day found me pacing the deserted dock. At my back, ts 
across the open space, was the irregular line of quaint, top- 
\heavy shops since passed away, their sightless windows barred 
by solid shutters of oak. The good ship Annapolis, which was 
‘to carry my playmate to broader scenes, lay among the ship- 
ping, in the gray roads just quickening with returning light. 20 
‘How my heart ached that morning none shall ever know. 
‘But, as the sun shot a burning line across the water, a new 
ssalt breeze sprang up and fanned a hope into fame. “Iwas 
ithe very breeze that was to blow Dorothy down the bay. 
Sleepy apprentices took down the shutters, and polished the 2s 
windows until they shone again; and chipper Mr. Denton 
‘Jacques, who did such a thriving business opposite, presently 
appeared to wish me a bright good morning. 

| I knew that Captain Waring proposed to sail at ten of the 
‘clock; but after breakfasting, I was of two minds whether to 30 
see the last of Miss Dorothy, foreseeing a levee in her honour 
jupon the ship. And so it proved. I had scarce set out in a 
pungy from the dock, when I perceived a dozen boats about 
ithe packet; and when I thrust my shoulders through the 
gangway, there was the company gathered at the mainmast. 35 
They made a gay bit of colour,—Dr. Courtenay in a green coat 
















' 
116 RICHARD CARVEL 


laced with fine Mechlin, Fitzhugh in claret and silk stockings 
of a’ Quaker gray, and the other gentlemen as smartly drest. 
The Dulany girls and the Fotheringay girls, and I know not 
how many others, were there to see their friend off for home. 

5 In the midst of them was Dorothy, in a crimson silk capuchin, 
for we had had one of our changes of weather. It was she 
who spied me as I was drawing down the ladder again. 

“Te is Richard!” I heard her cry. “‘He has come at last.” 

I gripped the rope ugnely, sprang to the deck, and faced 

ro her as she came out of the group, her lips parted, and the red 
of her cheeks vying with the hood she wore. | took her hand 
silently. 

“T had given you over, Richard,” she said, her eyes looking 
reproachfully into mine. “‘ Another ten minutes, and I should 

15 not have seen you.’ 

Indeed, the topsails were already off the caps, the captain 
on deck, and the men gathered at the capstan. 

“Have you not enough to wish you good-by, Dolly?” ] 
asked. 

20 “There must be a score of them,” said my lady, making a 
face. “But I wish to talk to you. 

Mr. Marmaduke, however, had no notion of allowing a 
gathering in his daughter’s honour to be broken up. It had 
been wickedly said of him, when the news of his coming 

25 departure got around, that he feared Dorothy would fall im 
love with some provincial beau before he could get her within 
reach of a title. When he observed me talking to her, he 
hurried away from the friends come to see his wife (he hac 
none himself), and seizing me by the arm implored me te 

30 take good care of my dear grandfather, and to write them oc 
casionally of the state of his health, and likewise how I fared 

ie think Dorothy will miss you more than anys of them 
Richard,” said he. ‘‘ Will you not, my dear?” 

But che was gone. l, too, left him without ceremony, 4 

3s speak to Mrs. Manners, who was standing apart, lookin 
shoreward. She started when I spoke, and I saw that teag 
were 1n her eyes. f 





A FESTIVAL AND A PARTING 117 


“Are you coming back soon, Mrs. Manners?” I asked. 


“Oh, Richard! I don’t know,” she answered, with a little 
choke in her voice. “I hope it will be no longer than a 
iyear, for we are leaving all we hold dear for a very doubtful 
pleasure.” 5 


She bade me to write to them, as Mr. Marmaduke had, only 
ishe was sincere. Then the mate came, with his hand to his 
cap, respectfully to inform visitors that the anchor was up 
and down. Albeit my spirits were low, ’twas no small enter- 
tainment to watch the doctor and his rivals at their adieus. 10 
Courtenay had at his command an hundred subterfuges to 
joutwit his fellows, and so manceuvred that he was the last of 
them over the side. As for me, luckily, I was not worth a 
‘thought. But as the doctor leaned over her hand, I vowed in 
my heart that if Dorothy was to be gained only in such a way 15 
‘TL would not stoop to it. And in my heart I doubted it. | 
heard Dr. Courtenay hint, looking meaningly at her cloak, 
that some of his Sowers would not have appeared amiss there. 





| “Why, doctor,” says my lady aloud, with a side glance at 
ime, “the wisdom of Solomon might not choose out of twenty 20 


baskets.” 


' And this was all the thanks he got for near a boat-load of 
roses! When at length the impatient mate had hurried him 
‘of, Dolly turned to me. It was not in me to say more than:— 


| “Good-by, Dorothy. And do not forget your old playmate. 25 
He will never forget you.” 


We stood within the gangway. With a quick movement 
she threw open her cloak, and pinned to her gown I saw a 
) om Bunch of lilies of the valley. 


I had but the time to press her hand. The boatswain’s pipe 30 
abistled, and the big ship was already sliding in the water as 
I leaped into my pungy, which Hugo was holding to the 
ladder. We pulled off to where the others waited. 

But the Annapolis sailed away down the bay, and never 
another glimpse we caught of my lady. 35 


f 
| 
a 
| 


CHAPTER XII 


NEWS FROM A FAR COUNTRY ; 


Ir perchance, my dears, there creeps into this chronicle 
too much of an old man’s heart, I know he will be forgiven. 
What life ever worth living has been without its tender at- 
tachment? Because, forsooth, my hair is white now, does 

s Bess flatter herself I do not know her secret? Or does Comyn 
believe that these old eyes can see no farther than the spec 
tacles before them? Were it not for the lovers, my son, satins 
and broadcloths had never been invented. And were it not 
for the lovers, what joys and sorrows would we lack in our 

10 lives! 4 

That was a long summer indeed. And tho’ Wilmot House 
was closed, I often rode over of a morning when the dew 
was on the grass. It cheered me to smoke a pipe with old 
McAndrews, Mr. Manners’s factor, who loved to talk of Miss 

15 Dorothy near as much as J. He had served her grandfather, 
and people said that, had it not been for McAndrews, the 
Manners fortune had long since been scattered, since Mr. 
Marmaduke knew nothing of anything that he should. I 
could not hear from my lady until near the first of October, 

20 and so I was fain to be content with memories—memories and 
hard work. For I had complete charge of the plantation now. 

My Uncle Grafton came twice or thrice, but without his 
family, Aunt Caroline and Philip having declared their inde- 
pendence. My uncle’s manner to me was now of studied kind- 

2s ness, and he was at greater pains than before to give me no 
excuse for offence. I had little to say to him. He spent his 
visits reading to Mr. Carvel, who sat in his chair all the day 
long. Mr. Allen came likewise, to perform the same office. 
My contempt for the rector was grown more than ever. On 


118 








NEWS FROM A FAR COUNTRY 11g 


my grandfather’s account, however, I refrained from quarrel- 
ling ‘with him. And, when we were alone, my plain speaking 
did not seem to anger him, or affect him in any way. Others 
came, too. Such was the affection Mr. Carvel’s friends bore 
him that they did not desert him when he was no longer the 5 
companion he had been in former years. We had more com- 
pany than the summer before. 

In the autumn a strange thing happened. When we had 
taken my grandfather to the Hall in June, his dotage seemed 
to settle upon him. He became a trembling old man, at times 10 
so peevish that we were obliged to summon with an effort what 
he had been. He was suspicious and fault-finding with Scipio 
and the other servants, though they were never so busy for his 
wants. Mrs. Willis’s dainties were often untouched, and he 
would frequently sit for hours between slumber and waking, 15 
or mumble to himself as I read the prints. But about the 
time of the equinoctial a great gale came out of the south so 
strongly that the water rose in the river over the boat land- 
ing; and the roof was torn from one of the curing-sheds. 
The next morning dawned clear, and brittle, and blue: To 20 
my great surprise, Mr. Carvel sent for me to walk with him 
about the place, that he might see the damage with his own 
eyes. A huge walnut had fallen across the drive, and when 
he came upon it he stopped abruptly. 

“Old friend!’ he cried, “have you succumbed? After all 2s 
these years have you dropped from the weight of a blow?” 
He passed his hand caressingly along the trunk, and scarce 
ever had I seen him so affected. In “truth, for the instant I 
thought him deranged. He raised his cane above his shoulder 
and struck the bark so heavily that the silver head sunk deep 30 
into the wood. “Look you, Richard,” he said, the water com- 
ing into his eyes, “look you, the ties of it is gone, lad; and 
when the heart is rotten ’tis time for us to go. That walnut 
was a life friend, my son. We have grown together,” he con- 
tinued, turning froin me to the giant and brushing his cheeks, 35 
“but by God’s good will we shall not die so, for my heart 1s 
still as young as the days when you were sprouting.’ 


120 RICHARD CARVEL 


And he walked back to the house more briskly than he had — 
come, refusing, for the first time, my arm. And from that — 
day, I say, he began to mend. The lacing of red came again © 
to his cheeks, and before we went back to town he had — 

5 walked with me to Master Dingley’s tavern on the highroad, ~ 


and back. 
We moved into Marlboro’ Street the first part of Novem=- 


ber. I had seen my lady off for England, wearing my faded © 
flowers, the panniers of the fine gentleman in a neglected pile — 
ro at her cabin door. But not once had she deigned to write me. © 


It was McAndrews who told me of her safe arrival. In 


Annapolis rumours were a-flying of conquests she had already © 
made. I found Betty Tayloe had had a letter, filled with the © 


fashion in caps and gowns, and the mention of more than — 


rs one noble name. All of this being, for unknown. reasons, 


sacred, I was read only part of the postscript, in which I 


ficured: ‘‘The London Season was done almost before we 
> 


arrived,” soit ran. “We had but the Opportunity to pay our © 


Humble Respects to their Majesties, and appear at a few 


20 Drum-Majors and Garden Fétes. Now we are off to Bright- ~ 
helmstone, and thence, so Papa says, to Spa and the Conti- © 
nent until the end of January. I am pining for news of — 
Maryland, dearest Betty. Address me in care of Mr. Ripley, i 


Barrister, of Lincoln’s Inn, and bid Richard Carvel write me.’ 
25 * Which does not look as if she were coming back within 
the year,” said Betty, as she poured me a dish of tea. 


Alas, no! But I did not write. I tried and failed. And 


then I tried to forget. I was constant at all the gayeties, 


gave every miss in town a share of my attention, rode to — 


30 hounds once a week at Whitehall or the South River Club 


with a dozen young beauties. But cantering through the win- — 


. 
: 


ter mists ‘twas Dolly, in her red riding-cloak and white beaver, 
I saw beside me. None of them had her seat in the saddle, 
and none of them her light hand on the reins. And tho’ they 
35 lacked not fire and skill, “they had not my lady’s dash and dar- 
ing to follow over field ad fallow, stream anid searing, and be 
in at the death with heightened colour, but never a lock awry. 


‘ 
f 
i 
; 
4 


¥ 


NEWS FROM A FAR COUNTRY 121 


Then came the first assembly of the year. I got back from 
Bentley Manor, where I had been a-visiting the Fotheringays, 
just in time to call for Patty in Gloucester Street. 

“Have you heard the news from abroad, Richard!” she 
asked, as I handed her into my chariot. 5 

“Never.a line,” I replied. 

“Pho!” exclaimed Patty; “you tell me that! Where have 
you been hiding? Then you shall not have it from me.’ 

I had little trouble, however, in persuading her. For news 
was a rare luxury in those days, and Patty was plainly un-10 
comfortable until she should have it out. 

““T would not give you the vapours to-night for all the world, 
Richard,” she exclaimed. ‘ But if you must,—Dr. Courtenay 
has had a letter from Mr. Manners, and says that Dolly is to 
marry his Grace of Chartersea. There now!” 15 

“And I am not greatly disturbed,” I answered, with a fine, 
careless air. 

The lanthorn on the chariot was burning bright. And I 
saw Patty look at me, and laugh. 

“Indeed!” says she; “what a sex is that to which you be-2zo 
long. How ready are men to deny us at the first whisper! 
And I thought you the most constant of all. For my part, I 
credit not a word of it. ’Tis one of Mr. Marmaduke’s lies 
and vanities.” 

“And for my part, I think it true as gospel,” I cried. 25 
“Dolly always held a coronet above her colony, and all her 
life has dreamed of a duke.” 

“Nay, answered Patty, more soberly; ‘‘nay, you do her 
wrong. You will discover one day that she is loyal to the 
core, tho’ she has a fop of a father, who would serve his 30 
Grace’s chocolate. We are all apt to talk, my dear, and to 

say what we do not mean, as you are doing.” 

“Were I to die to-morrow, I would repeat it,” I exclaimed. 
But I liked Patty the better for what she had said. 

** And there 1 is more news, of less import,” she continued, as 35 
a was silent. “‘The Thunderer dropped anchor in the roads 
to-day, and her officers will be at the assembly. And Betty 


122 RICHARD CARVEL 


tells me there is a young lord among them,—la! I have 

clean forgot the string of adjectives she used,—but she would 

have had me know he was handsome as Apollo, and so dash- 

ing and diverting as to put Courtenay and all our wits to 
sshame. She dined with him at the Governor’s.”’ 


ee 


I barely heard her, tho’ I had seen the man-o’-war in the — 


harbour as | sailed in that afternoon. 


The assembly hall was filled when we arrived, aglow with | 


candles and a-tremble with music, the powder already flying, 


roand the tables in the recesses at either end surrounded by ~ 


those at the cards. A lively scene, those dances at the old 


Stadt House, but one | love best to recall with a presence that © 


endeared it to me. The ladies in flowered aprons and caps — 


and brocades and trains, and the gentlemen in brilliant coats, — 
5 trimmed with lace and stiffened with buckram. That night, 


as Patty had predicted, there was a smart sprinkling of uni- 


forms from the Thunderer. One of those officers held my eye. ~ 
He was as well-formed a lad, or man (for he was both), as it © 


had ever been my lot to see. He was neither tall nor short, 


zobut of a good breadth. His fair skin was tanned by the 
weather, and he wore his own wavy hair powdered, as was — 


just become the fashion, and tied with a ribbon behind. 


“Mercy, Richard, that must be his Lordship. Why, his 


good looks are all Betty claimed for them!” exclaimed Patty. 
2s Mr. Lloyd, who was standing by, overheard her, and was 
vastly amused at her downright way. 


“T will fetch him directly, Miss Swain,” said he, “as I have 


done for a dozen ladies before you.” And fetch him he did. 


“Miss Swain, this is my Lord Comyn,” said he. “* Your — 


30 Lordship, one of the boasts of our province.” 


Patty grew red as the scarlet with which his Lordship’s— 


coat was lined. She curtseyed, while he madea profound bow. 


“What! Another boast, Mr. Lloyd!” he cried. ‘‘Miss 


Swain is the tenth I have met. But I vow they excel as they 


35 proceed.” 
“Then you must meet no more, my Lord,” said Patty, 
laughing at Mr. Lloyd’s predicament. 








NEWS FROM A FAR COUNTRY 123 


“Egad, then, I will not,’ declared Comyn. “I protest I 
am satisfied.” 

Then I was presented. He had won me on the instant 
with his open smile and frank, boyish manner. 

“And this is young Mr. Carvel, who I hear wins every s 
hunt in the colony?” said he. 

“T fear you have been misinformed, my Lord,’ I replied, 
flushing with pleasure nevertheless. 

“Nay, my Lord,” Mr. Lloyd struck in; “‘Richard could 
ride down the devil himself, and he were a fox. You will1o 
see for yourself to-morrow.’ 

“T pray we may not start the devil,” said his Lordship; “or 
I shall be content to let Mr. Carvel run him down.” 

This Comyn was a man after my own fancy, as, indeed, he 
took the fancy of everyone at the ball. Though a viscount rs 
in his own right, he gave himself not half the airs over us 
provincials as did many of his messmates. Even Mr. Jacques, 
who was sour as last year’s cider over the doings of Parlia- 
ment, lost his heart, and asked why we were not favoured in 
America with more of his sort. 20 

By a great mischance Lord Comyn had fallen into the 
tender clutches of my Aunt Caroline. It seemed that she had 
known his uncle, the Honourable Arthur Comyn, in New 
York; and now she undertook to be responsible for his Lord- 
ship’s pleasure at Annapolis, that he might meet only those 25 
‘of the first fashion. Seeing him talking to Patty, my aunt 
rose abruptly from her loo and made toward us, all paint 
and powder and patches, her chin in the air, which barely 
enabled her to. look over Miss Swain’s head. 

“My Lord,” she cries, ‘‘I will show you our colonial reel, 30 
Which is about to begin, and I warrant you is gayer than any 
: dance you have at home.” 

“Your very devoted, Mrs. Carvel,” says his Lordship, with | 
a bow, “‘but Miss Sait has done me the honour.”’ 

“O Lud!’ cries my aunt, sweeping the room, “I vow I 3s 
cannot keep pace with the misses nowadays. Is she here?” 

“She was but a:moment since, ma’am,” replied Comyn, 


124 RICHARD CARVEL 


instantly, with a mischievous look at me, while poor Patty — 
stood blushing not a yard distant. 
There were many who overheard, and who used their fans 
and their napkins to hide their laughter at the very just snub 
5 Mrs. Grafton had received. And I wondered at the readiness © 
with which he had read her character, liking him all the 
better. But my aunt was not to be disabled by this,—not 
she. After the dance she got hold of him, keeping him until 
certain designing ladies with daughters took him away; their 
xonames charity forbids me to mention. But in spite of them 
all he contrived to get Patty for supper, when I took Betty 
Tayloe, and we were very merry at table together. His 
Lordship proved more than able to take care of himself, and 
contrived to send Philip about his business when he pulled 
rs up a chair beside us. He drank a health to Miss Swain, and 
another to Miss Tayloe, and was on the point of filling a_ 
third glass to the ladies of Maryland, when he caught him- 
self and brought his hand down on the table. 
““Gad’s life!’ cried he, “but I think she’s from Maryland, © 
20 too!” . 
“Who?” demanded the young ladies, in a breath. 
But I knew. . 
“Who!” exclaimed Comyn. “Who but Miss Dorothy Man- ° 
ners! Isn’t she from Maryland?’ And marking our aston-— 
2s ished nods, he continued: ‘‘Why, she descended upon May- 
fair when they were so weary for something to worship, and 
LS Mae mad over her in a s’ennight. I give you Miss Man- 
ners! j ; 
“And you know her!” exclaimed Patty, her voice quivering” 
30 With excitement. p 
“Faith!” said his Lordship, laughing. ‘‘ For a whole month 
I was her most devoted, as were we all at Almack’s. I stayed 
_until the last minute for a word with her,—which I never got, 
by the way,—and paid near a guinea a mile for a chaise to” 
35 Portsmouth as a consequence. Already she has had her choice 
from a thousand a year up, and I tell you our English ladies’ 
are green with envy.” | 





NEWS FROM A FAR COUNTRY 125 


I was stunned, you may be sure. And yet, I might have 
expected it. 

“If your Lordship has left your heart in England,” said 
Betty, with a smile, “I give you warning you must not tell 
our ladies here of it.” ie 

*‘T care not who knows it, Miss Tayloe,’’ he cried. That 
fustian, insincerity, was certainly not one of his faults. ‘I 
care not who knows it. To pass her chariot is to have your 
heart stolen, and you must needs run after and beg mercy. 
But, ladies,” he added, his eye twinkling; ‘‘having seen the yo 
women of your colony, I marvel no longer at Miss Manners’s 
beauty.” 

He set us all a-laughing. 

“| fear you were not born a diplomat, sir,” says Patty. 
“You agree that we are beautiful, yet to hear that one of us is ys 
‘more so is small consolation.”’ 

“We men turn as naturally to Miss Manners as plants to 
the sun, ma’am,” he replied impulsively. “‘Yet none of us 
dare hope for alliance with so brilliant and distant an object. 

I make small doubt those are Mr. Carvel’s sentiments, and 5, 
still he seems popular enough with the ladies. How now, 
sir? How now, Mr. Carvel? You have yet to speak on so 
tender a subject.” 

My eyes met Patty’s. 

“T will be no more politic than you, my Lord,” I said ,. 
boldly, “nor will I make a secret of it that I adore Miss Man- 
ners full as much.” 

“Bravo, Richard!’ cries Patty; and “Good!” cries his 
Lordship, while Betty claps her hands. And then Comyn 
swung suddenly round in his chair. es 

“Richard Carvel!’ says he. “‘By the seven chimes I have 
heard her mention your name. The devil fetch my memory!” 

“My name!” I exclaimed, in surprise, and prodigiously 
upset. } 

“Yes,” he answered, with his hand to his head; “‘some ,. 
such thought was in my mind this afternoon when I heard 
of your riding, Stay! I have it! 1 was at Ampthill, 


f 
» 


126 RICHARD CARVEL 


Ossory’s place, just before I left. Some insupportable cox- 
comb was boasting a marvellous run with the hounds nigh 
across Hertfordshire, and Miss Manners brought him up with 
‘a round turn and a half hitch by relating one of your exploits, 
s Richard Carvel. And take my word on’t she got no small 
applause. She told how you had followed a fox over one of 
your rough provincial counties, which means three of Hert- 
fordshire, with your arm broken, by Heaven; and how they 
lifted you off at the death. And, Mr. Carvel,’ said my Lord, 

1o generously, looking at my flushed face, “‘you must give me 
your hand for that.” 

So Dorothy in England had thought of me at least. But 
what booted it if she were to marry a duke! My thoughts 
began to whirl over all Comyn had said of her so that I 

15 Scarce heard a question Miss Tayloe had put. 


“Marry Chartersea! That profligate pig!” Comyn was. 


saying. ‘She would as soon marry a chairman or a chimney- 
sweep, I’m thinking. Why, Miss Tayloe, Sir Charles Grandi- 
son himself would scarce suit her!” 


20 ‘‘Good lack!’ said Betty, “I think Sir Charles would be 


the very last for Dorothy.” 


CHAPTER XIII 


MR. ALLEN SHOWS HIS HAND 


So Dorothy’s beauty had taken London by storm, even as it 
had conquered Annapolis! However, ’twas small consolation 
to me to hear his Grace of Chartersea called a pig and a 
profligate while better men danced her attendance in May- 
fair. Nor, in spite of what his Lordship had said, was I quite s 
easy on the score of the duke. It was in truth no small hon- 
our to become a duchess. If Mr. Marmaduke had aught to 
say, there was an end to hope. She would have her coronet. 
But in that hour of darkness I counted upon my lady’s spirit. 

Dr. Courtenay came to the assembly very late, with a new 10 
fashion of pinchbeck buckles on his pumps and a new manner 
of taking snuff. (I caught Fotheringay practising this by the 
stairs shortly after.) Always an important man, the doctor’s 
prominence had been increased that day by the letter he had 
received. He was too thorough a courtier to profess any 1s 
grief over Miss Manners’s match, and went about avowing 
that he had always predicted a duke for Miss Dorothy. And 
he drew a deal of pleasure from the curiosity of those who 
begged but one look at the letter.. Show it, indeed! For no 
consideration. A private communication from one gentle- 20 
man to another must be respected. Will Fotheringay swore 
the doctor was a sly dog, and had his own reasons for keeping 
it to himself. 

The doctor paid his compliment to the captain of the 
Thunderer, and to his Lordship; hoped that he would see them 25 
at the meet on the morrow, tho’ his gout forbade his riding to 
hounds. He saluted me in the most friendly way, for I 
played billiards with him at the Coffee House now, and he 
won my money. He had pronounced my phaeton to be as 


127 


128 RICHARD CARVEL 








well appointed as any equipage in town, and had done r me 
the honour to drive out with me on several occasions. It was 
Betty that brought him humiliation that evening. y 
“What do you think of the soar our Pandora hath taken, 
5 Miss Betty?” says he. “From a Maryland manor to a ducal 
palace. “Tis a fable, egad! No less!” 
“Indeed, I think it is,” retorted Betty. *‘Mark me, docu ; 
Dorothy walk not put up an instant with a rowé and a brute. 7 
““A roué!”’ cried he, “‘and a brute! What the plague, Miss 
xo Tayloe! I vow I do not understand you.’ 
“Then ask my Lord Comyn, who knows your Duke of 
Chartersea,” said Betty. 4 
Dr. Courtenay’s expression was worth a pistole. 
“Comyn knows him!” he repeated. . 
15 “That he does,” replied Betty, laughing. “His Lordship” 
says Chartersea is a pig and profligate, and | remember not 
what else. And that Dolly will not look at him. And so 
little Mr. Marmaduke may go a-hunting for another cial 
No wonder [ had little desire for dancing that night. IT 
20 wandered out of the assembly room and through the silent 
corridors of the Stadt House, turning over and over again” 


















macaronies of St. James’s Street. She had said nothing of 
this in her letter to Betty, and had asked me to write to her. 
23 But now, with a duke to refuse or accept, could she care to 
hear from her old playmate? I took no thought of the time, 
until suddenly my conscience told me I had neglected Patty. 
As IJ entered the hall I saw her at the far end of it talking 
to Mr. Allen. This I thought strange, for I knew she disliked 
30 him. Lord Comyn and Mr. Carroll, the barrister, and Single= 
ton, were standing by, listening. By the time I was halfway 
across to them the rector turned away. I remember think- 
ing afterwards that he changed colour when he said: “ Your 
servant, Mr. Richard.” But I thought shee of it at the 
35 time, and went on to Patty... 
“T have come for a bs dar 
I said. 4 





MR. ALLEN SHOWS HIS HAND 129 


Then something in her mien struck me. Her eyes ex- 
pressed a pain I had remarked in them before only when she 
spoke to me of Tom, and her lips were closed tightly. She 
flushed, and paled, and looked from Singleton to Mr. Car- 
roll. They and his Lordship remained silent. 

“I—I cannot, Richard. [ am going home,” she said, in a 
low voice. 

' JT will see if the chariot is here,’ 
but thinking of Tom. 
| She stopped me. a 

“Tam going with Mr. Carroll,” she said. 

I hope a Carvel never has to be rebuffed twice, nor to be 
humbled by craving an explanation before a company. I was 
confounded that Patty should treat me.thus, when I had 
done nothing to deserve it. As I made for the door, burning :; 
and indignant, I felt as tho’ every eye in the room was upon 
me. Young Harvey drove me that night. 

Marlboro’ Street, Mr. Richard?” said he. 
; ep oree House,” replied I, that place coming first into my 

ead. as 
Young Harvey seldom took liberties; but he looked down 
from the box. 

“Better home, sir; your pardon, sir.” 

“D—n it!” I cried, “drive where I bid you!” 

I pulled down the fore-glass, though the night was cold, and 2. 
began to cast about for the cause of Patty’s action. And then 
it was the rector came to my mind. Yes, he had been with 
her just before I came up, and | made sure on the instant 
that my worthy instructor was responsible for the trouble. I 
remembered that I had quarrelled with him the morning ,, 
before I had gone to Bentley Manor, and threatened to con- 
fess his villainy and my deceit to Mr. Carvel. He had an- 
swered me with a sneer and a dare. I knew that Patty put 
honour and honesty before all else in the world, and that she 
would not have suffered my friendship for a day had she be- 
lieved me to lack either. But she, who knew me so well, was 
not likely to believe anything he might say without giving me 


P 


’ 


I answered, surprised, 


] 
| 





35 


130 RICHARD CARVEL ° 2 


Me 


the chance to clear myself. And what could he have told her! 
I felt my anger growing big within me, until I grew ara 
of what I would do if I were tempted. I had a long score an 
a heavy score against this rector of St. Anne’s,—a score that 
5 had been sathering these years. And I felt that my uncle was 
somewhere behind him; that the two of them were plotters 
against me, even as Harvey had declared; albeit my Uncle 
Grafton was little seen in his company now. And finally, in 
a sinister flash of revelation, came the thought that Grafton 
ro himself was at the back of this deception of my grandfather, 
as to my principles. Fool that 1 was, it had never occurred to 
me before. But how was he to gain by it? Did he hope that 
Mr. Carvel, in a fit of anger, would disinherit me when he 
found I had deceived him? Yes. And so had left the matter 
15 in abeyance near these two years, that the shock might be the 
greater when it came. I recalled now, with a shudder, that 
never since the spring of my grandfather’s illness had my 
uncle questioned me upon my politics. I was seized with a fit 
of fury. I suspected that Mr. Allen would be at the Coffee 
20 House after the assembly. And I determined to seize the 
chance at once and have it out with him then and there. 
The inn was ablaze, but as yet deserted; Mr. Claude expecs 
tant. He bowed me from my chariot door, and would know 
what took me from the ball. I threw him some short answer, 
2s bade Harvey go home, saying that I would have some fellow 
light me to Marlboro’ Street when I thought proper. And 
coming into the long room I flung aside my greatcoat and com- 
manded a flask of Mr. Stephen Bordley’s old sherry, some of 
which Mr. Claude had obtained at the bachelor’s demise. | 
30 Lhe wine was scarce opened before I heard some sort of still 
at the front, and two servants in a riding livery of scarlet and 
white hurried in to seek Mr. Claude. The sight of them suf 
ficed mine host, for he went out as fast as his legs would go, 
giving the bell a sharp pull as he passed the door; and pres- 
3sently I heard him complimenting two gentlemen into the 
house. The voice of one I knew,—being no other than Cap= 
tain Clapsaddle’s; and him I had not seen for the past six 


MR. ALLEN SHOWS HIS HAND 531 


months. I was just risen -to my feet when they came in at 
the door beside me. 

“Richard!” cried the captain, and grasped my hand in 
both his own. I returned his pressure, too much pleased to 
speak. Then his eye was caught by my finery. 5 

**So ho!” says he, shaking his head at me for a sad rogue. 
“Wine and women and fine clothes, and not nineteen, or I 
mistake me. It was so with Captain Jack, who blossomed in 
a week; and few could vie with him, I warrant you, after he 
made his decision. But bless me!” he went on, drawing back, 

“the lad looks mature, and a fair two inches broader than lade 
spring. But why are you not at the assembly, Richard?” 

“T have but now come from there, sir,” I replied, not caring 
in the presence of a stranger to enter into reasons. 

At my answer the captain turned from me to the gentle- 15 
man behind him, who had been regarding us both as we talked. 
There are some few men in the world, I thank God for it, who 
bear their value on their countenance; who stand unmistaka- 
bly for qualities which command respect and admiration and 
love! We seem to recognize such men, and to wonder where 20 
we have seen them before. In reality we recognize the virtues 
they represent. So it was with him I saw in front of me, and 
by his air and carriage [| marked him then and there as a man 
born to great things. You all know his face, my dears, and I 
‘pray God it may live in the sight of those who come after you, 25 
for generation upon generation! 

“Colonel Washington,” said the captain, “this is Mr. Rich- 
ard Carvel, the son of Captain Carvel.” 

Mr. Washington did not speak at once. He stood regard- 
ing me a full minute, his eye seeming to penetrate the secrets 30 
of my life. And I take pride in saying it was an eye [| could 
meet without flinching. 

“Your father was a brave man, sir,” he said soberly, “and 
it seems you favor him. I am happy in knowing the son.” 

For a moment he stood debating whether He would go to 35 
‘the house of one of his many friends in Annapolis, know- 
ing that they would be offended when they learned he had 


al 


° 





132 RICHARD CARVEL i 


stopped at the inn. He often came to town, indeed, but 
seldom tarried long; and it had never been my fortune to seé 
him. Being trrived unexpectedly, and obliged to be away 
early on the morrow, he decided to order rooms of Mr. Claude, 
5 sat down with me at the table, and commenced supper. They 
had ridden from Alexandria. I gathered from their conversa- 
tion that they were on their way to Philadelphia upon some 
private business, the nature of which, knowing Captain 
Daniel’s sentiments and those of Colonel ‘Washington, I went 
10 not far to guess. The country was in a stir about the Town- 
shend duties; and there being some rumour that all these were 
to be discharged save only that on tea, anxiety prevailed in our 
middle colonies that the merchants of New York would aban- 
don the association formed and begin importation. It was of 
15 some mission to these merchants that I suspected them. 

As I sat beside Colonel Washington, I found myself growing 
calmer, and ashamed of my lack of self-control. Uncon- 
sciously, when we come in contact with the great of character, 
we mould our minds to their qualities. His very person 

20seemed to exhale, not sanctity, but virility. I felt that this 
man could command himself and others. In his presence self- 
command came to me, as a virtue gone out of him. *[Twas not 
his speech, I would have you know, that took hold of me. He 
was by no means a brilliant talker, and I had the good fortune 
25 to see him at his ease, since he and the captain were old 
friends. As they argued upon the questions of the day, the 
colonel did not seek to impress by words, or to fascinate by 
manner. His opinions were calm and moderate, and appeared 
to me so just as to admit of no appeal. He scrupled not to 
3o use a forceful word when occasion demanded. And yet, now 
and then, he had a lively way about him with all his dignity. 
When: he had finished his supper he bade Mr. Claude bring 
another bottle of Mr. Bordley’s sherry, having tested mine, 
and addressed himself to me. 5 
35 He would know what my pursuits had been; for my father’s 
sake, what were my ambitions? He questioned me about Mr. 
Carvel’s plantation, of which he had heard, and appeared 


MR. ALLEN SHOWS HIS HAND 133 


| 


pleased with the answers I gave as to its management and 

methods. Captain Daniel was no less so. Mr. Washington 

had agriculture at his finger ends, and gave me some advice 
which he had found serviceable at Mount Vernon. 

ie Lis a pity, Richard,” said he, smiling thoughtfully at the s 
captain, “’tis a pity we have no service afield open to our 
young men. One of your spirit and bearing should be of that 
profession. Captain Jack was as brave and dashing an officer 
as I ever laid eyes on. 
| L hesitated, tho’ tingling at the compliment. 10 
| “J begin to think I was born for the sea, sir,” I answered, 
vat leneth. 
| “What!” cried the captain; ‘‘what news is this, Richard? 
‘Slife! how has this come about?” 
| My anger subdued by Mr. Washington’s presence, a curious 15 
‘mood had taken its place. A foolish mood, I thought it, but 
one of feeling things to come. 

“T believe I shall one day take part ina areas sea- fight,” I 
said. And, tho? ashamed to speak of it, I told him of Stan- 
Wix’s prophecy that I should pace the decks of a man-o’-war. 20 

*“A pox on Stanwix!” said the captain, ‘“‘an artful old sea- 
dog! | never yet knew one who did not think the sun rises 
‘and sets from poop to forecastle, who did not wheedle with 
all the young blood to get them to follow a bow-legged pro- 
fession.” 

Colonel Washington laughed. | 

“Judge not, Clapsaddle,” said he; “‘here are two of us try- 
ing to get the lad for our own bow-legged profession. We 
‘are as hot as Methodists to convert.’ 

“Small conversion he needed when I was here to watch 30 
him, colonel. And he rides with any trooper I ever laid eyes 
on. Why, sir, I myself threw him on a saddle before he could 
well-nigh walk, and *twere a waste of material to put him in 
the navy.’ 

“But what this old man said of a flag not yet seen in35 
heaven or earth interests me,” said Colonel Washington. 
“Tell me,” he added with a penetration we both remarked, 








25 


134 RICHARD CARVEL a) 


“tell me, does your Captain Stanwix follow the times? Is he 
a man to read his prints and pamphlets? In other words, is he 
a man who might predict out of his own heated imagination?!” 

“Nay, sir,” I answered, ‘‘he nods over his tobacco the day 

slong. And I will make bold to swear, he has never heard of 
the Stamp Act.” 

‘°Tis strange,” said the colonel, musing; “I have heard of 
this second sight—have seen it among my own negroes. But 
J heartily pray that this may be but the childish fancy of 

zoan old mariner. How do you interpret it, sir?” he added, 
addressing himself to me. 

ling prophecy, I can interpret it in but one way,” I be- 
gan, and there J stopped. 

“To be sure,” said Mr. Washington. He studied me awhill 

15 as though weighing my judgment, and went on: “Needless 
to say, Richard, that such a service, if it comes, will not be 
that of his Majesty.” . 

“And it were, colonel, I would not emiapks in it a step,” 

I cried. | 
20 He laughed. 

“The lad has his father’s impulse,” he said to Captain 
Daniel. “‘But I thought old Mr. Carvel to be one of the 
warmest loyalists in the colonies.” $ 

I bit my lip; for, since that unhappy deception of Mr. Car- 

25 vel, I had not meant to be drawn into an avowal of my sen= 
_timents. But I had, alas, inherited a hasty tongue. 

“Mr. Washington,” said the captain, ‘old Mr. Carvel has 
ever been a good friend to me. And, though I could not but 
perceive which way the lad was tending, 1 had held it but a 

go poor return for friendship had I sought by word or deed to 
bring him to my way of thinking. Nor have I ever suffered 
his views in my presence.’ ; 

“My dear sir, I honour you for it,” put in the colonel 
warmly. 

3s “It is naught to my credit,” returned the captain. 
would not, for the sake of my party and beliefs, embitte: 
what remains of my old friend’s life.” 





T? | 


MR. ALLEN SHOWS HIS HAND 135 


I drew a long breath and drained the full glass before me. 

“Captain Daniel!” I cried, “you must hear me now. I 
have been waiting your coming these months. And if Colonel 
Washington gives me leave, I will speak before him.” 

The colonel bade me proceed, avowing that Captain Car- 5 
vel’s son should have his best assistance. 

With that I told them the whole story of Mr. Allen’s vil- 
lany. How I had been sent to him because of my Whig sen- 
timents, and for thrashing a Tory schoolmaster and his flock. 
This made the gentlemen laugh, tho’ Captain Daniel had 10 
heard it before. I went on to explain how Mr. Carvel had 
fallen ill, and was like to die; and how Mr. Allen, taking ad- 
vantage of his weakness when he rose from his bed, had gone 
to him with the lie of having converted me. But when I told 
of the scene between my grandfather and me at Carvel Hall, 15 
of the tears of joy that the old gentleman shed, and of how 
he had given me Firefly as a reward, the captain rose from 
his chair and looked out of the window into the blackness, 
and swore a great oath all to himself. And the expression I 
saw come into the colonel’s eyes | shall never forget. 20 

“And you feared the consequences upon your grandfather’s 
health?” he asked gravely. | 

“So help me God!” I answered, “I truly believe that to 
have undeceived him would have proved fatal.” 

“And so, for the sake of the sum he receives for teaching 25 
you,” cried the captain, with another oath, “this scoundrelly 
clergyman has betrayed you into a lie. A scheme, by God’s 
life! worthy of a Machiavelli!” 

“T have seen too many of his type in our parishes,” said 
Mr. Washington; ‘‘and yet the bishop of London seems power- 30 
less. And so used have we become in these Southern colonies 
to tippling and gaming parsons, that I warrant his people 
accept him as nothing out of the common.” 

_ “He is more discreet than the run of them, sir. His parish- 
ioners dislike him, not because of his irregularities, but because 35 
he is attempting to obtain All Saints’ from his Lordship, in 
addition to St. Anne’s. He's thought too greedy.” 


136 RICHARD CARVEL 


















He was silent, his brow a little furrowed, and drummed ~ 
with his fingers upon the table. ' 4 
“But this I cannot reconcile,” said he, iors ‘that th : 


s rascal must play for higher stakes.”’ | 

I was amazed at his insight. And for the moment was im=_ 

pelled to make a clean breast of my suspicions,—nay, of my 
convictions of the whole devil’s plot. But I had no proofs. 


10 respectability and of wealth, and a member of his Excellency’s” 
Council. That to accuse him of scheming for my inheritance 
would gain me nothing in Mr. Washington’s esteem. And I 
caught myself before [had said aught of Mr. Allen’s conduct» 
that evening. ‘ 

ts  ‘‘Have you confronted this rector with his perfidy, Rich- | 
ard?”’ he asked. + 

“T have, colonel, at my first opportunity.” And I related 
how Mr. Allen had come to the Hall, and what I had said to” 
him, and how he had behaved. And finally told of the picquet_ 

20 we now had during lessons, not caring to shield myself. Both 
listened intently, until the captain broke out. Mr. Washing=— 
-ton’s indignation was the stronger for being repressed. 

“T will call him out!” cried ‘Captain Daniel, fingering his” 
sword, as was his wont when angered; “‘I will calf him out. 

25 despite his gown, or else horse him publicly!” : 

‘“No, my dear sir, you will do nothing of the kind,” said the” 
colonel. ‘ You would gain nothing by it for the lad, and lose 
much. Such rascals walk in water, and are not to be tracked, 
He cannot be approached save through Mr. Lionel Carvel 

~ 30 himself, and that channel, for Mr. Carvel’s sake, must be 
closed.” 

“But he must be shown up!” cried the captain. 

“What good will you accomplish?” said Mr. Washington; 
‘Lord Baltimore is notorious, and will not remove him. Nay, 

35 Sir, you must find a way to get the lad from his influence.” 
And he asked me how was my grandfather’s health at present x | 

I said that he had mended beygnd my hopes. 


MR. ALLEN SHOWS HIS HAND 137 


“And does he seem to rejoice that you are of the King’s 
party!” 

_ “Nay, sir. Concerning politics he seems strangely apa- 
thetic, which makes me fear he is not so well as he appears. 
All his life he has felt strongly.” 5 

“Then I beg you, Richard, take pains to keep neutral. Nor 
let any passing event, however great, move you to speech or 
action.” 

The captain shook his head doubtfully, as tho’ questioning 
the ability of one of my temper to do this. 10 
_ “TI do not trust myself, sir,” I answered. 

_ He rose, declaring it was past his hour for bed, and added 
‘some kind things which I shall cherish in my memory. As he 
was leaving he laid his hand on my shoulder. 

“One word of advice, my lad,” he said. “If by any chance 15 
your convictions are to come to your grandfather’s ears, let 
a have them from your own lips.”’ And he bade me good 
night. 

The captain tarried but a moment longer. 

_“T have a notion who is to blame for this, Richard,” he 20 
said. *“‘When I come back from New York, we shall see what 
we shall see.” | 

“I fear he is too slippery for a soldier to catch,” I answered. 
He went away to bed, telling me to be prudent, and mind 
the colonel’s counsel until he returned from the North. 25 


¥ 





CHAPTER XIV 


THE VOLTE COUPE 

















I was of a serious mind to take the advice. To prove this 
I called for my wrap-rascal and cane, and for a fellow with a 
flambeau to light me. But just then the party arrived from_ 
the assembly. I was tempted, and I sat down again in a 
s corner of the room, resolved to keep a check upon myself but~ 
to stay awhile. 
The rector was the first in, humming a song, and spied me, 
“Ho!” he cried, “will you drink, Richard? Or do I drink” 
with you?” 4 
ro He was already purple with wine. 
“God save me from you and your kind!” I replied. | 
“?Sblood! what a devil’s nest of fireworks!” he exclaimed, 
as he went off down the room, still humming, to where the rest) 
were gathered. And they were soon between bottle and stops” 
15 per, and quips a-coursing. There was the captain of the Thun= 
derer, Collinson by name, Lord Comyn and two brother of= 
ficers, Will Fotheringay, my cousin Philip, openly pleased to” 
be found in such a company, and some dozen other toadeaters” 
who had followed my Lord a-chair and afoot from the ball, 
20 and would have tracked him to perdition had he chosen to go; 
and lastly Tom Swain, leering and hiccoughing at the jokes, 
in such a beastly state of drunkenness as I had rarely seen 
him. His Lordship recognized me and smiled, and was push= 
ing his chair back, when something Collinson said seemed 
25 to restrain him. 
I believe I was the butt of more than one jest for my aloof 
ness, though I could not hear distinctly for the noise they 
made. I commanded some French cognac, and kept my eyé 
on the rector, and the sight of him was making me dangerous. 


138 


per VOLTE COUPE 139 


I forgot the advice I had received, and remembered only the 
months he had goaded me. And I was even beginning to 
speculate how I could best pick a quarrel with him on any 
issue but politics, when an unexpected incident diverted me. 
Of a sudden the tall, ungainly form of Percy Singleton filled 5 
the doorway, wrapped ina greatcoat. He swept the room ata 
glance, and then strode rapidly toward the corner where I sat. 

“Thad thought to find you here,” he said, and dropped into - 
a chair beside me. I offered him wine, but he refused. 

“Now,” he went on, ‘‘what has Patty done?” 10 

“What have I done that I should be publicly insulted?” I 
cried. 

“Insulted!”’ says he, 
nothing of that.” 

“What brings you here, then?” I demanded. 15 

“Not to talk, Richard,” he said quietly, ‘“‘’tis no time to- 
night. I came to fetch you home. Patty sent me.” 

Patty sent him! Why had Patty sent him? But this I 
did not ask, for I felt the devil within me. 

“We must first finish this bottle,” said I, offhand, “‘and 20 
then [ have a little something to be done which I have set my 
heart upon. After that I will go with you.” 

“Richard, Richard, will you never learn prudence? What 
is it you speak of?” 

drew my sword and laid it upon the table. 2 

“I mean to spit that eel of a rector,” said I, “‘or he will 
bear a slap in the face. And you must see fair play.” 

Singleton seized my coat, at the same time grasping the hilt 
of my sword with the other hand. But neither my words nor 
my action had gone unnoticed by the other end of the room. 30 
The company there fell silent awhile, and then we heard 
Captain Collinson talking in even, drawling tones. 

“Tis strange,” said he, “what hot sparks a man meets in 
these colonies. They should be stamped out. His Majesty 
pampers these d—d Americans, is too lenient by far. Gentle- 35 
men, this is how I would indulge them!’ He raised a closed 
fist and brought it down on the board. 


fs 


“and did she insult your She said 


5 






















140 RICHARD CARVEL é 


oY 
He spoke to Tories, but he forgot that Tories were Ameri- 
cans. In those days only the meanest of the King’s part! 
would listen to such without protest from an Englishmans 
But some of the meaner sort were there: Philip and Tom 
s laughed, and Mr. Allenand my Lord’s sycophants, Fotherin= 
gay and some others of sense shook their heads one to another, 
comprehending that Captain Collinson was somewhat gone in 
- wine. For, indeed, he had not strayed far from the sideboard 
at the assembly. Comyn made a motion to rise. | 
ro “It is already past three bells, sir, and a hunt to-morrow, ~ 
he said. | 
‘“‘From bottle to saddle, and from saddle to bottle, my Lord. 
We must have our pleasure ashore, and sleep at sea,” and thé 
captain tipped his flask with a leer. He turned his eye uncers) 
13 tainly first on me, then on my Lord. “We are lately from) 
Boston, gentlemen, that charnel-house of treason, and before” 
we leave, my Lord, I must tell them how Mr. Robinson of the” 
customs served that dog Otis, in the British Coffee House. 
God’s word, ’twas as good as a play.” a 
20 1 know not how many got to their feet at that, for the story” 
of the cowardly beating of Mr. Otis by Robinson and the army 
officers had swept over the colonies, burning like a flame all” 
true-hearted men, Tory and Whig alike. I wrested my sword 
from Singleton’s hold, and in a trice I had reached the caps” 
2s tain over chairs and table, tearing myself from Fotheringay 

on the way. I struck a blow that measured a man on thé 
floor. Then I drew back, amazed. in << 
I had hit Lord Comyn instead! The captain stood a yard 
beyond me. 
30 Lhe thing had been so deftly done by the rector of Sq 
Anne’s—Comyn jostled at the proper moment between mi 
and Collinson—that none save me guessed beyond an acct 
dent; least of all my Lord Comyn himself. He was up agai 
directly and his sword drawn, addressing me. e. 
3s ‘Bear witness, my Lord, that I have no desire to fight wit 
you,” said I, with what coolness I could muster. “But ther 
is one here I would give much for a chance to run through. 


THE VOLTE COUPE 141 


And I made a step toward Mr. Allen with such a purpose 
in my face and movements that he could not mistake. I saw 
‘the blood go from his face; yet he was no coward to physical 
violence. But he (or I?) was saved by the Satan’s luck that 
followed him, for my Lord stepped in between us with a bow, 5 
his cheek red where I had struck him. 

“It is my quarrel now, Mr. Carvel,” he cried. 

"As you please, my Lord,” said I. 

) me boots not who crosses with him,” Captain Collinson put 
““His Lordship uses the sword better than any here. But 10 

4 boots not so that he is opposed by. a loyat servant of the 

King. 

I acdlcd on him for this. 

“I would have you know that loyalty does not consist in 
outrage and murder, sir,” I answered, “nor in the ridiculing 15 
-of them. And brutes cannot be loyal save through interest.” 
He was angered, as I had desired. I had hopes then of 
'shouldering the quarrel on to him, for I had near as soon 
drawn against my own brother as against Comyn. I protest 
I loved him then as one with whom I had been reared. 20 
| “Let me deal with this young gamecock, Comyn,” cried the 

captain, with an oath. “He seems to think his importance 
| sufficient.”’ 
\ But Comyn would brook no interference. He swore that 
/no man should strike him with impunity, and in this I could 25 
| not but allow he was right. 
“You shall hear from me, Mr. Carvel,” he said. 

“Nay,” I answered, “and fighting is to be done, sir, let us 
be through with it at once. A large room upstairs is at our 
disposal; and there is a hunt to-morrow which one of us may 30 
I EK to attend.” 
| There was a laugh at this, in which his Lordship joined. 
| “TI would to God, Mr. Carvel,” he said, “that [ had no 

geste with you!” 

|_ “Amen to that, my Lord,” I replied; “there are others here 35 
would rather fight.” And I gave a meaning look at Mr. 
Allen. I was of two minds to announce the scurvy trick he 








= he 





ae. = 
ba a 
Mg 


142 RICHARD CARVEL q 
% 
had played, but saw that I would lose rather than gain by the 
attempt. Up to that time the wretch had not spoken a word; 
now he pushed himself forward, though well clear of me. 
“IT think it my duty as Mr. Carvel’s tutor, gentlemen, to 
3 protest against this matter proceeding,” he said, a sneer 
creeping into his voice. “Nor can I be present at it. Mr. Care 
vel is young and, besides, is not himself with liquor. And, im 
the choice of politics, he knows not which leg he stands upon. 
My Lord and gentlemen, your most humble and devoted.” ~ 
10 He made a bow and, before the retort on my lips coul 
be spoken, left the tavern. My cousin Philip left with him, 
Tom Swain had fallen asleep in his chair. e 
Captain Collinson and Mr. Furness, of the Thunderer, of 
fered to serve his Lordship, which made me bethink that I 
rs too, would have need of some one. *[was then I remembered 
Singleton, who had passed from my mind. 
He was standing close behind me, and nodded simply when 
IT asked him. And Will Fotheringay came forward. 
“T will act, Richard, if you allow me,” he said. “I woul 
20 have you know I am in no wise hostile to you, my Lord, an 
I am of the King’s party. But I admire Mr. Carvel, and P 
may say | am not wholly out of sympathy with that which 
prompted his act.” 
It was a noble speech, and changed Will in my eyes; and I 
25 thanked him with warmth. He of all that company had the 
courage to oppose his Lordship! } 
Mr. Claude was called in and, as is the custom in suc 
cases, was told that some of us would play awhile above. He 
was asked for his private room. The good man had his sus= 
30 picions, but could not refuse a party of such distinction, and” 
sent a drawer thither with wine and cards. Presently we 
es leaving the pack of toadies in sad disappointment 
elow. 
We gathered about the table and made shift at loo until the 
3s fellow had retired, when the seconds proceeded to clear t 
room of furniture, and Lord Comyn and I stripped off o 
coats and waistcoats. I had lost my anger, but felt no fea: 













THE VOLTE COUPE 143 


only a kind of pity that blood should be shed between two so 
united in spirit as we. Yes, my dears, I thought of Dorothy. 
If I died, she would hear that it was like a man—like a 
Carvel. But the thought of my old grandfather tightened my 
heart. Then the clock on the inn stairs struck two, and thes 
noise of hard laughter floated up to us from below. 

And Comyn,—of what was he thinking? Of some fair 
home set upon the downs across the sea, of some heroic Eng- 
lish mother who had kept her tears until he was gone? Her 
image rose in dumb entreaty, invoked by the lad before me. 10 
What a picture was he in his spotless shirt with the ruffles, 
his handsome boyish face all that was good and honest! 

I had scarce felt his Lordship’s wrist than I knew I had to 
deal with a pupil of Angelo. At first his attacks were all 
simple, without feint or trickery, as were mine. Collinson rs 
cursed and cried out that it was buffoonery, and called on my 
Lord not to let me off so easily; swore that I fenced like a 
mercer, that he could have stuck me like a pin-cushion twenty 
‘and twenty times. Often have I seen two animals thrust into 
a pit with nothing but good will between them, and those 20 
without force them into anger and a deadly battle. And so it 
was, unconsciously, between Comyn and me. | forgot pres- 
ently that [ was not dealing with Captain Collinson, and my 
| feelings went into my sword. Comyn began to press me, nor 
‘did I give back. And then, before it came over me that we 25 
had to do with life and death, he was upon me with a volte 
‘coupe, feinting in high carte and thrusting in low tierce, his 
point passing through a fold in my shirt. And I were not 
‘alive to write these words had I not leaped out of his measure. 
Bravo, Richard!” cried Fotheringay. 30 
| Well made, gad’s life!” from Mr. Furness. 

We engaged again, our faces hot. Now I knew that if I 
did not carry the matter against him I should be killed out of 
|hand, and Heaven knows I was not used to play a passive part. 
I began to go carefully, but fiercely; tried one attack after 35 
another that my grandfather and Captain Daniel had taught 
me,—flanconnades, beats, and lunges. Comyn held me even, 


m 








144 RICHARD CARVEL : 
and in truth I had much to do to defend myself. Once 14 
thought I had him in the sword-arm, after a circular parry, 
but he was too quick for me. We were sweating freely by 
now, and by reason of the buzzing in my ears | could scarce 
s hear the applause of the seconds. 

What unlucky chance it was I know not that impelled 
Comyn to essay again the trick by which he had come so near_ 
to spitting me; but try it he did, this time in prime and 
seconde. | had come by nature to that intuition which a 

ro true swordsman must have, gleaned from the eyes of his ad- 
versary. Long ago Captain Daniel had taught me the remedy 
for this coupe. T parried, circled, and straightened, my body 
in swift motion and my point at Comyn’ s heart, when Heaven 
brought me recollection in the space of a second. My sword 
15 rang clattering on the floor. 

His Lordship understood, but too late. Despairing his life, 
he made one wild lunge at me that had never gone home had 
I held to my hilt. But the rattle of the blade had scarce” 
reached my ears when there came a sharp pain at my throat,” 

20 and the room faded before me. I heard the clock striking the” 
half-hour. 

I was blessed with a sturdy health such as few men enjoy, 
and came to myself sooner than had been looked for, with a) 
dash of cold water. And the first face I beheld was that of 

2s Colonel Washington. I heard him speaking in a-voice that 
was calm, yet urgent and commanding. 

“TI pray you, gentlemen, give back. He is coming to, and 
must have air. Fetch some linen!” 

“Now God be praised!” I heard Captain Daniel ery. 

30 With that his Lordship began to tear his own shirt into” 
strips, and, the captain bringing a bowl and napkin, the 
colonel Ee: washed the wound and bound it deftly, Sin- 
gleton and Captain Daniel assisting. When Mr. Washingto 
had finished, he turned to Comyn, who stood, anxious an 

3s dishevelled, at my feet. 

“You may be thankful that you missed the artery, m 


Lord,” he said. 
















THE VOLTE COUPE 145 


“With all my heart, Colonel Washington!” cried his Lord- 
ship. “I owe my life to his generosity.” 

“What's that, sir?” 

“Mr. Carvel dropped his sword, rather than run me 
through.” 5 
“Til warrant!’ Captain Daniel put in; “’Od’s heart! The 
lad has skill to point the eye of a button. I taught him 

myself.” 

Colonel Washington stood up and laid his hand on the cap- 
tain’s arm. 10 
“He is Jack Carvel over again,” I heard him say, in a low 

voice. 

I tried to struggle to my feet, to speak, but he restrained 
me. And sending for his servants, he ordered them to have 
his baggage removed from the Roebuck, which was the best 15 
bed in the house. At this moment the door opened, and Mr. 
Swain came in hurriedly. 

“I pray you, gentlemen,” he cried, “and he 1s fit to be 
moved, you will let me take him to Marlboro’ Street. I 
have a chariot at the door.” 20 





CHAPTER XV 
OF WHICH THE RECTOR HAS THE WORST 


*Twas late when I awoke the next day with something of a 
dull ache in my neck, and a prodigious stiffness, studying the 
pleatings of the bed canopy over my head. And I know not 



















a 


how long I lay idly thus when I perceived Mrs. Willis moving 
5 quietly about, and my grandfather sitting in the armchair by 
the window, looking into Freshwater Lane. As my eyes fell 
upon him my memory came surging back,—first of the duel, 
then of its cause. And finally, like a leaden weight, the 
thought of the deception I had practised upon him, of which 
rohe must have learned ere this. Nay, I was sure from the 
troubled look of his face that he knew of it. : 
“Mr. Carvel,” I said. 
At the sound of my voice he got hastily from his chair and 
hurried to my side. 
1s “Richard,” he answered, taking my hand, “Richard!” @ 
I opened my mouth to speak, to confess. But he prevented 
me, tears filling the wrinkles around his eyes. 4 
“Nay, lad, nay. We will not talk of it. I know alls: 
“Mir. Allen has been here—” I began. : 7 
vo “And be d—d to him! Be d—d to him for a wolf im 
sheep’s clothing!” shouted my grandfather, his manner-shift 
ing so suddenly to anger that I was taken back. “So help me 
God I will never set foot in St. Anne’s while he is rector. Nor 
shall he come to this house!” 5 
as And he took three or four disorderly turns about the room, 
“Ah!” he continued more quietly, with something of a sigh, 
“T might have known how stubborn your mind should be. 
That you were never one to blow from the north one day and 
from the south the next. I deny not that there be good men 


146 


4 


‘OF WHICH THE RECTOR HAS THE WORST 147 


and able of your way of thinking: Colonel Washington, for 
one, whom | admire and honour; and our friend Captain 
Daniel. They have been here to-day, Richard, and I promise 
you were good advocates.” 

Then I knew that I was forgiven. And I could haves 
thrown myself at Mr. Carvel’s feet for happiness. 

“Has Colonel Washington spoken in my favour, sir?” 

“That he has. He is upon some urgent business for the 
North, I believe, which he delayed for your sake. Both he 
/and the captain were in my dressing-room before I was up, 10 
ahead of that scurrilous clergyman, who was for pushing his 

| way to my bed-curtains. Ay, the two of them were here at 
nigh dawn this morning, and Mr. Allen close after them. And 
I own that Captain Daniel can swear with such a consuming 
| violence as to put any rogue out of countenance. “Iwas alls 
Mr. Washington could do to restrain Clapsaddle from boot- 
ing his Reverence over the balustrade and down two runs of 
the stairs, the captain declaring he would do for every cur’s 
son of the whelps. ‘Diomedes,’ says I, waking up, ‘what’s 
| this damnable racket on the landing? Is Mr. Richard home?’ 20 
For [ had some notion it was you, sir, after an overnight 
brawl. And I profess I would have caned you soundly. The 
fellow answered that Captain Clapsaddle’s honour was killing 
Mr. Allen, and went out; and came back presently to say that 
some tall gentleman had the captain by the neck, and that 25 
Mr. Allen was picking his way down the ice on the steps out- 
-side. With that I went into them in my dressing-gown. 
“*What’s all this to-do, gentlemen?’ said I. 
““T’'d have finished that son of a dog,’ says the captain, 
“and Colonel Washington had let me. 30 
‘= “What, what!’ seqditd? © Siow now? 2. What! ~Drivé’a 
elergyman from my house! What’s Richard been at now, 
men! 
“Mr. Washington asked me to dress, saying that they had 
| “something very particular to speak about; that they would 35 
Stay to breakfast with me, tho’ they were in haste to “be gone 
ge New York. I made my compliments to the colonel and had 











148 RICHARD CARVEL 


















them shown to the library fire, and hurried down after them, 
Then they told me of this affair last night, and they cleared 
you, sir. ‘Faith,’ cried I, ‘and I would have fought, too. The 
lad was in the right of it, though I would have him a little 
less hasty... D—n me if I don’t wish you had knocked that” 
sea-captain’s teeth into his throat, and his brains with them.) 
I like your spirit, sir. A pox on such men as he, who dis- 
grace his Majesty’s name and set better men against him.” 
“And they told you nothing else, sir?’ J asked, with 
ro Misgiving. 4 

“That they did. Mr. Washington repeated the confession 
you made to them, sir, in a manner that did you credit. He 
made me compliments on you,—said that you were a man, 
sir, though’a trifle hasty: in the which I agreed. Yes, d—n 

1s5me, a trifle hasty like your father. I rejoice that you did 
not kill his Lordship, my son.” § 

The twilight was beginning; and the old gentleman going 
back to his chair was set a-musing, gazing out across the bare 
trees and gables falling gray after the sunset. 

zo What amazed me was that he did not seem to be shocked 
by the revelation near as much as | had feared. So this mat- 
ter had brought me happiness where I looked for nothing bu 
sorrow. 

“And the gentlemen are gone north, sir!” said I, after 

25 while. 

“Yes, Richard, these four hours. I commanded an early 
dinner for them, since the colonel was pleased to tarry long 
enough for a little politics and to spin a glass. And I profess,» 
were I to live neighbours with such a man, I might come to 

3o his way of thinking, despite myself. Though I say it that 
shouldn’t, some of his Majesty’s ministers are d—d rascals.” 

I laughed. As I live, ] never hoped to hear such words 
from my grandfather’s lips. a cia 

“He did not seek to convince, like so many of your hot 

35 headed know-it-alls,”’ said Mr. Carvel; ‘‘he leaves a man te 
convince himself. He has great parts, Richard, and few car 
stand before him.” He paused. And then his smooth-shaver 








OF WHICH THE RECTOR HAS THE WORST 149 


face became creased in a roguish smile which I had often seen 

upon it. “What baggage is this I hear of that you quarrelled 

over at the assembly? Ah, sir, I fear you are become but a 

sad rake!’ says he. 

But by great good fortune Dr. Leiden was shown in at this 5 
instant. And the candles being lighted, he examined my neck, 
_ haranguing the while in his vile English against the practice 
of dueling. He bade me keep my bed for two days, thereby 
_ giving me no great pleasure. . 
| “As I hope to live,” said Mr. Carvel when the doctor was 10 
gone, “one would have thought his Excellency himself had 
been pinked instead of a whip of a lad, for the people who 
have been here. His Lordship and Dr. Courtenay came be- 
fore the hunt, and young Mr, Fotheringay, and half a score 
of others. Mr. Swain is but now left to go to Baltimore on 1; 
some barrister’s business.” 

I was burning to learn what the rector had said to Patty, 
but it was plain Mr. Carvel knew nothing of this part of the 
story. He had not mentioned Grafton among the callers. I 
wondered what course my uncle would now pursue, that his 20 
plans to alienate me from my grandfather had failed. And I 
| began debating whether or not to lay the whole plot before 
Mr. Carvel. Prudence bade me wait, since Grafton had not 
consorted with the rector—openly, at least—for more than 
a year. And yet I spoke. 25 

“Mr. Carvel!’ 

He stirred in his chair. 

“Yes, my son.” 

He had to repeat, and still I held my tongue. Even as I 
hesitated there came a knock at the door, and Scipio entered, 30 
bearing candles. 

“Massa Grafton, suh,” he said. 

My uncle was close at his heels. He was soberly dressed in 
| dark brown silk, and his face wore that expression of sorrow 
and concern he knew how to assume at will. After greeting ,. 
his father with his usual ceremony, he came to my bedside 


i asked gravely how I did. 


“How now, Grafton!” cried Mr. Carvel; “this is no fa 
neral. The lad has only a scratch, thank God!” 
My uncle looked at me and forced a smile. ; 
“Indeed I am rejoiced to find you are not worried over this" 
5 matter, father,’ ” said he. “I am but just back from Kent to- 
learn of it, and looked to find you in bed.” 
“Why, no, sir, I am not worried, I fought a duel i in my 
own day,—over a lass, it was.’ 
This time Grafton’s smile was not forced. ’ 
10 " Over a lass, was it?’ he asked, and added in a tone of 
relief, “and how do you, nephew?” - 
Mr. Carvel saved me from replying. 
*°Od’s life!” he cried; “no, I did not say this was over a_ 
lass. I have heard the whole matter; how Captain Collinson, 
1s who is a disgrace to the service, brought shame upon his_ 
Majesty’s supporters, and how Richard felled the young lord 
instead. I’ll be sworn, and I had been there, I myself would” 
have run the brute through.” 
My uncle did not ask for further particulars, but took a 
20 chair, and a dish of tea from Scipio. His smug look told me™ 
plainer than words that he thought my grandfather still ig- 
norant of my Whig sentiments. 
“I often wish that this deplorable practice of duclling! 
might be legislated against,’ he remarked. “Was there no one 
25 at the Coffee House with character enough to stop the lads?” 
Here was my chance. 
“Mr. Allen was there,” I said. 
“A devil’s plague upon him!” shouted my grandfather, 
beating the floor with his stick. ‘And the lying hypocrite 
30 ever crosses my path, by gad’s life! I'll tear his gown from: 
his back!” 3 
I watched Grafton narrowly. Such as he never turn pale,” 
but he set down his tea so hastily as to spill the most of it on 
the dresser. 
3s _“‘ Why, you astound me, my dear father!” he faltered; “Mr. 
Allen a lying hypocrite? What can he have done?” 
“Done!” cried my grandfather, sputtering and red as 


150 RICHARD CARVEL 7 
7 











——— — 


OF WHICH THE RECTOR HAS THE WORST 151 


cherry with indignation. “He is as rotten within as a pricked 
pear, I tell you, sir! For the sake of retaining the lad in his 
tuition he came to me and lied, sir, just after I had escaped 
death, and said that’ by his influence Richard had become 
| loyal, and set dependence upon Richard’s fear of the shock 5 
*twould give me if he confessed—Richard, who never told me 
a falsehood in his life! And instead of teaching him, he has 
gamed with the lad at the rectory. I dare make oath he has 
treated your son to a like instruction. ’Slife, sir, and he had 
his deserts, he would hang from a gibbet at the Town Gate.” 10 

I raised up in bed to see the effect of this on my uncle. But 
‘however the wind veered, Grafton could steer a course. He 
got up and began pacing the room, and his agitation my 
grandfather took for indignation such as his own. 

“The dog!” he cried fiercely. “The villain! Philip shall rs 
eave him to-morrow. And to think that it was I who moved 
you to put Richard to him!” 

His distress seemed so real that Mr. Carvel replied:— 

“No, Grafton, ’twas not your fault. You were deceived as 
much as I. You have put your own son to him. But if I live zo 
another twelve hours I shall write his Lordship to remove 
him. What! You shake your head, sir!” 

“Tt will not do,” said my uncle. Lord Baltimore has had 
his reasons for sending such a scoundrel—he knew what he 
Was, you may be sure, father. His Lordship, sir, is the most 25 
abandoned rake in London, and that unmentionable crime of 
his but lately in the magazines—” 

“Yes, yes,” my grandfather interrupted; * ‘I have seen it. 
But I will publish him in Annapolis.” 

My uncle’s answer startled me, so like was it to the argu- 30 
ment Colonel Washington himself had used. 

_ “What would you publish, sir? Mr. Allen will reply that 
what he did was for the lad’s good, and your own. He may 
Swear that since Richard mentioned politics no more he had 
aken his conversion for granted.” 

‘ My grandfather groaned, and did not speak, and I saw a 
. of attempting to bring Grafton to earth for a while yet. 










He RICHARD CARVEL 
My uncle had recovered his confidence. He had hoped, so 

he said, that I had become a good loyalist: perchance as 1 
grew older I would see the folly of those who called them- 
selves Patriots. But my grandfather cried out to him not to 

s bother me then. And when at last he was gone, of my own 
volition I proposed to promise Mr. Carvel that, while he lived, 

I would take no active part in any troubles that might come, 
He stopped me with some vehemence. x 
“I pray God there may be no troubles, lad,” he answered, 

ro “but you need give me no promise. I would rather see you in 
the Whig ranks than a trimmer, for the Carvels have ever 
been partisans.’ « 

I tried to express my gratitude. But he sighed and wishe :g 

me good night, bidding me get some rest. , 
ts 1 had scarce finished 1 my breakfast the next morning when [ 
heard a loud rat-tat-tat upon the street door—surely the foot 
man of some person of consequence. And Scipio was in the 
act of announcing the names when, greatly to his disgust, 
the visitors themselves rushed into my bedroom and curtailed) 
20 the ceremony. They were none other than Dr, Courtenay and 
my Lord Comyn himself. His Lordship had no sooner seen 
me than he ran to the bed, grasped both my hands, and asked 
me how I did, declaring he would not have gone to yesterday’ § 
hunt had he been permitted to visit me. 
25 “Richard,” cried the doctor, ““your fame has sprung up 
like Jonah’ S ‘gourd. The Gazette is but just distributed. Here’s. 
for you! ’Twill set the wags a-going, I'll warrant.’ ri 
He drew the newspaper from his pocket and began to read, 
stopping now and anon to laugh:— 
30 “Rumour hathitthata Young Gentleman of Quality of this 
Town, who is possessed of more Valour than Discretion, and 
whose Skill at Fence and in the Field is beyond his Years 
crossed Swords on Wednesday Night with a Young Noblema 
from the Thunderer, The Cause of this Deplorable Quarrel 
3s which had its Origin at the Ball, is purported to have been a 
Young Lady of Wit and Beauty. (& we doubt it not; fo 
alas! the Sex hath Much to answer for of this Kind.) 















OF WHICH THE RECTOR HAS THE WORST 153 


“The Gentlemen, with their Seconds, repaired after the As- 
sembly to the Coffee House. *Tis said upon Authority that 
H-s L—rdsh-p owes his Life to the Noble Spirit of our Young 
American, who cast down his Blade rather than sheathe it in 
his Adversary’s Body, thereby himself receiving a Grievous, 5 
tho’ happily not Mortal, Wound. Our Young Gentleman is 
become the Hero of the Town, and the Subject of Prodigious 
Anxiety of all the Ladies thereof.” 

“There’s for you, my lad!” says he; “Mr. Green has done 
for you both cleverly.” 10 
| “Upon my soul,” I cried, raising up in bed, “he should be 
put in the gatehouse for his impudence! My Lord, — 

* Don’ t ‘My Lord’ me,” says Comyn; “plain ‘Jack’ will 
0. 

There was no resisting such a man: and [I said as much. 1s 
And took his hand and called him “Jack,” the doctor posing 
before the mirror the while, stroking his ruffles. “Out upon 
you both,” says he, “‘for a brace of sentimental fools!’ 

“Richard,” said Comyn, presently, with a roguish glance at 
the doctor, *‘there were some reason in our fighting had it 20 
been over a favour of Miss Manners. Eh? Come, doctor,” he 
cried, “‘you will break your neck looking for the reflection of 
wrinkles. Come, now, we must have little Finery’s letter. I 
give you my word Chartersea is as ugly as all three heads of 
Cerberus, and as foul as a ship’s barrel of grease. I tell you 25 
Miss Dorothy would sooner marry you.’ 

“And she might do worse, my Lord,” the doctor flung back, 
with a strut. 

_ “Ay, and better. But I promise you Richard and I are 
not such fools as to think she will marry his Grace. We must 30 
have the little coxcomb’s letter.”’ 

“Well, have it you must, I suppose,” returns the doctor. 
And with that he draws it from his pocket, where he has it 
buttoned in. Then he took a pinch of Holland and began. 

_ The first two pages had to deal with Miss Dorothy’ Ss tIi- 35 
umph, to which her father made full justice. Mr. Manners 
ould have the doctor (and all the province) to know that 





154 RICHARD CARVEL 


peers of the realm, soldiers, and statesmen were at her feet. 
Orders were as plentiful in his drawing-room as the candles, 
And he had taken a house in Arlington Street, where Horry 
Walpole lived when not at Strawberry, and their entrance was 
s crowded night and day with the footmen and chairmen of the” 
grand monde. Lord Comyn broke in more than once upon 
the reading, crying,—“ Hear, hear!” and,—“‘My word, Mra 
Manners has not perjured himself thus far. He has not done 
her justice by half.” And I smiled at the thought that I had” 
1o aspired to such a beauty! . 
“Entre nous, mon cher Courtenay, Mr. Manners writes, 
‘entre nous, our Dorothy hath had many offers of great ad=” 
vantage since she hath been here. And but yesterday comes 
a chariot with a ducal coronet to our door. His Grace of 
15 Chartersea, if you please, to request a private talk with me 
And I rode with him straightway to his house in Hanoi 
Square. ,” ' 
“’Eead! And would gladly have ridden straightway to” 
Newgate, i in a ducal chariot!’’ cried his Lordship, in a fit of” 
20 laughter. | 
“ ‘I rode to Hanover Square,’ the doctor continued, ‘where 
we discussed the matter over a bottle. His Grace’s generosity 
was such that I could not but cry out at it, for he left me tay 
name any settlement I pleased. He must have Dorothy at any 
25 price, said he. And I give you my honour, mon cher Cours 
tenay, that I lost no time in getting back to Arlington Stree = 
and called Dorothy down to tell her.’ ”’ | 
‘““Now may I be flayed,” said Comyn, “‘if ever ‘oe was 
such another ass!”’ q 
30 Lhe doctor took more snuff and fell a-laughing. 
“But hark to this,” said he, “‘here’s the cream of it all 
“You will scarce believe me when I say that the baggage was 
near beside herself. with anger at what I had to tell hers 
“Marry that misshapen duke!” cries she, “I would quicker 
3s marry Doctor Johnson!’ And truly, I begin to fear she hath 
formed an affection for some like, foul-linened beggar. That 
his Grace is misshapen I cannot deny; but | tried reason upon 














OF WHICH THE RECTOR HAS THE WORST ss 


her. “Think of the coronet, my dear, and of the ancient name 
to which it belongs.”’ She only stamps her foot and cries out: 
“Coronet fiddlesticks! And are you not content with the 
name you bear, sir?” “Our name 1s good as any in the three 
kingdoms,” said I, with truth. “Then you would have me, for s 
the sake of a coronet, joined to a wretch who is steeped in 
debauchery. Yes, debauchery, sir! You might then talk, 
forsooth, to the macaronies of Maryland, of your daughter the 
Duchess.” ’ ” 

“There’s spirit for you, my lad!’ Comyn shouted; “TI give 10 
you Miss Dorothy.” And he drained a glass of punch Scipio 
had brought in, Doctor Courtenay and [ joining him with a 
will. 

“TI pray you go on, sir,” I said to the doctor. 

“A pest on your impatience!’ replied he; “I begin to think rs 
you are in love with her yourself.” 

“To be sure he is,”’ said Comyn; “‘he had lost my esteem 
and he were not.” 

The doctor gave me an odd look. I was red enough, indeed. 

**T could say naught, my dear Courtenay, to induce her to 20 
believe that his Grace’s indiscretions arose from the wildness 
of youth. And I pass over the injustice she hath unwittingly 
done me, whose only efforts are for her bettering. The end 
‘of it all was that I must needs post back to the duke, who was 
stamping with impatience up and down, and drinking Bur- 2s 
gundy. J am sure I meant him no offence, but told him, in as 
many words, that my daughter had refused him. And, will 
you believe me, sir? He took occasion to insult me (I cannot 
with propriety repeat his speech), and he flung a bottle after 
me as I passed out of the door. Was he not far gone in wine at 3o 
the time, I assure you I| had called him out for it.’ ” 

“And, gentlemen,” said the doctor, when our merriment 
was somewhat spent, “I'll lay a pipe of the best Madeira, that 
our little fool never knows the figure he has cut with his 
Grace.” 35 


4 


Ae 
} 
. 























CHAPTER XVI ; 
IN WHICH SOME THINGS ARE MADE CLEAR 


Tue Thunderer weighed the next day, Saturday, while T 
was still upon my back, and Comyn sailed with her. Not 
however, before I had seen him again. Our affection was such 
as comes not often to those who drift together to part. And 

5 he left me that sword with the jewelled hilt, that hangs abovs 
my study fire, which he had bought in Toledo. He told mé 
that he was heartily sick of the navy; that he had entered only 
in respect for a wish of his father’s, the late Admiral Lord 
Comyn, and that the Thunderer was to sail for New Yorky 

10 where he looked for a release from his commission, and whence 
he would return to England. He would carry any messages to 
Miss Manners that I chose to send. But I could think of none, 
save to beg him to remind her that she was constantly in mj 
thoughts. He promised me, roguishly enough, that he would 

15 have thought of a better than that by the time he sighted Cape 
Clear. And were I ever to come to London he would put mé 
up at Brooks’s Club, and warrant me a better time and more 
friends than ever had a Caribbee who came home on a visit. 

My grandfather kept his word in regard to Mr. Allen, and 

20 on Sunday commanded the coach at eight. We drove over bad 
roads to the church at South River. And he afterwards de 
clined the voluntary aid he hitherto had been used to give to 
St. Anne’s. In the meantime, good Mr. Swain had called 
again, bringing some jelly and cake of Patty’s own making; 

25 and a letter writ out of the sincerity of her hearf, full of ten 
der concern and of penitence. She would never cease to blame 
herself for the wrong she now knew she had done me. q 

Though still somewhat weak from my wound and confine 
ment, after dinner that Sunday I repaired to Gloucest 


156 


SOME THINGS ARE MADE CLEAR L67 
Street. From the window she saw me coming, and, bare- 
yeaded, ran out in the cold to meet me. Her eyes rested first 
m the linen around my throat, and she seemed all in a hire 
at anxiety. 

_ “Thad thought you would come to-day, when I heard you ; 
yad been to South River,” she said. 

"| was struck all of a sudden with her looks. Her face was 
pale, and I saw that she had suffered as much again as I 
Troubled, I followed her into the little library. The day was 
fading fast, and the leaping flames behind the andirons threw j 
fantastic shadows across the beams of the ceiling. We sat 
together in the deep window. . 

| “And you have forgiven me, Richard?’ she asked. 

| “An hundred times,” I replied. “I deserved all I got, and 
more.” as 
“Tf I had not wronged and insulted you—” 

“Vou did neither, Patty,” I broke in; “I have played a 
double part for the first and last time in my life, and I have 
been justly punished for it.” 

| “Twas I sent you to the Coffee House,” she cried, “where 2, 
you might have been killed. How I despise myself for listen- 
ing to Mr. Allen’s tales!” 

“Then it was Mr. Allen!” I exclaimed, fetching a long 
breath. 

“Yes, yes; I will tell you all.” - 
| “No,” said I, alarmed at her agitation; “another time.” 
 ©T must,” she answered more calmly; “it has burned me 
‘enough. You recall that we were at supper together, with 
Betty Tayloe and Lord Comyn, and how merry we were, 
altho’ twas nothing but ‘ Dorothy’ with you gentlemen. Then 3, 
you left me. Afterwards, as I was talking with Mr. Singleton, =~ 
‘the rector came up. I never have liked the man, Richard, but 
T little knew his character. He began by twitting me for a 
Whig, and presently he said: ‘But we have gained one con- 
‘vert, Miss Swain, who sees the error of his ways. Scarce a 3. 
year since young Richard Carvel promised to be one of those 
with whom his Majesty will have to reckon. And he is now 


Pia 








158 _ RICHARD CARVEL 


] 





become,’ —laughing,—' the King’s most loyal and devoted. 
I was beside myself. “That is no subject for jest, Mr. Allen,” 
I cried; ‘I will never believe it of him!’ ‘Jest! said he; “I 
give you my word I was never soberer in my life.’ Thett it 

s all came to me of a sudden that you sat no longer by the hour 

with my father, as you used, and you denounced the King’s 
measures and ministers no more. My father had spoken of it. 
‘Tell me why he has changed?’ I asked, faltering with dou 
of you, which I never before had felt. ‘Indeed, I know not, 
roreplied the rector, with his most cynical sified ‘unless it 
because old Mr. Carvel might disinherit a Whig. But I see 

you doubt my word, Miss Swain. Here is Mr. “Carroll, an 
you may ask him.’ God forgive me, Richard! I stopped Mr. 
Carroll, who seemed mightily surprised. And he told me yes, 
15 that your grandfather had said but a few days before, and wi 
joy, that you were now of his Majesty’s party.’ | 
“Alas! I might have foreseen this consequence,’ I ex 
claimed. “Nor do I blame you, Patty.” 7 
“But my father has explained all,’ Patty continued, bright® 
2zoening. “His admiration for you is increased tenfold, Richards 
Your grandfather told him of the rector’s treachery, which he 
says is sufficient to make him turn Methodist or Lutheram 
We went to the curate’s service to-day. And—will you hear 
more, sir? Or do your ears burn? That patriots and loyal- 
25 ists are singing your praises from Town Gate to the dock, and 
regretting that you did not kill that detestable Captain Collin | 
son—but I have something else, and of more importance, 4 
tell you, Richard,” she continued, lowering her voice. ¥ 

“What Mr. Carroll had told me stunned me like a blow 

_ 3osuch had been my faith in you. And when Mr. Allen moved 

off, [ stood talking to Percy Siftgleton and his Lordship with 
out understanding a word of the conversation. I could scar > 
have been in my “right mind. {it was not your going over t 
the other side that pained me so, for all your people are Tories, 
35 But I had rather seen you dead than a pretender and a hypo 
crite, selling yourself for an inheritance. Then you camé, 
My natural impulse should have been to draw you aside an 











SOME THINGS ARE MADE CLEAR © 159 


there accuse you. But this was beyond my strength. And 
when I saw you go away without a word I knew that I had 
been unjust. I could have wept before them all. Mr. Carroll 
went for his coach, and was a full half an hour in getting it. 
But this is what | would tell you in particular, Richard. Is 
have not spoken of it to a soul, and it troubles me above all 
else: While Maria was getting my cardinal I heard voices on 
the other side of the dressing-room door. The supper-room is 
next, you know. I listened, and recognized the rector’s deep 
tones: ‘He has gone to the Coffee House,’ he was saying; 10 
‘Collinson declares that his Lordship is our man, if we can 
but contrive it. He is the best foil in the service, and was 
taught by’—there! I have forgot the name.” 

“Angelo!” I cried. 

“Yes, yes, Angelo it was. How did you know?” she de-1s 
leaded, rising in her excitement. 
_ “Angelo is the great fencing-master of London,” I replied. 

“When I heard that,” she said, “I had no doubt of your 
mnocence. I ran out into the assembly room as I was, in 
ny hood, and tried to find Tom. But he—” She paused, 20 
ashamed. 
| “Yes, I know,” I said hurriedly; “you could not find him.” 
| She glanced at me in gratitude. 
| “How everybody stared at me! But little I cared! “Twas 
that gave rise to Mr. Green’s report. I thought of Percy 2s 
Singleton, and stopped him in the midst of a dance to bid him 
tun as fast as his legs would carry him to the Coffee House, 
and to see that no harm befell you. ‘I shall hold you respon- 
sible for Richard,’ I whispered. ‘You must get him away from 
Mr. Claude’s, or I shall never speak to you again.’ He did not 30 
La to ask questions, but went at once, like the good fellow 
je is. Then ] rode home with Maria. I would not have 
Mr. Carroll come with me, though he begged hard. Father 
was in here, writing his brief. But I was all in pieces, Rich- 
ard, and so shaken with sobbing that I could tell him no more 3g 
than that you had gone to the Coffee House, where they meant 
to draw you into a duel. He took me up to my own room, and 


‘e: 














160 ~ RICHARD CARVEL 













I heard him going out to wake Limbo to harness, and at la 
heard him driving away in our coach. I hope I may never1 
my life spend such another hour as I passed then.” 3 
The light in the sky had gone out. I looked up at the gil 
s before me as she stood gazing into the flame, her features im 
strong relief, her lips parted, her hair red-gold,.and_ the 
rounded outlines of her figure softened. I wondered why 
had never before known her beauty. Perchance it was bee 
cause, until that night, I had never seen her heart. 
zo I leaped to my feet and seized her hands. For a second she 
looked at me, startled. Then she tore them away and ran 
behind the dipping chair in the corner. q 
“Richard, Richard!’ she exclaimed. “Did Dorothy but 
know!” - 
ts ‘Dorothy is occupied with titles,” I said. \ 
Patty’s lip quivered. And I knew, blundering fool that 
was, that I had hurt her. . 
“Oh, you wrong her!” she cried; “believe me when I s 
that she loves you, and you only, Richard.” 
20 ‘Loves me!” I retorted bitterly,—brutally, I fear. 
She may have once, long ago. But now her head is turnedy, 
‘She loves you now,” answered Patty, earnestly; “and 
think ever will, if you but deserve her.” bi 
And with that she went away, leaving me to stare after he 
25 in perplexity and consternation. 


“cs 





CHAPTER XVII 
| SOUTH RIVER 


My grandfather’s defection from St. Anne’s called forth a 
leal of comment in Annapolis. His Excellency came to re- 
nonstrate, but to no avail, and Mr. Carvel denouncéd the 
rector in such terms that the Governor was glad to turn the 
ubject. My Uncle Grafton acted with such quickness and 5 
| would have served to lull the sharpest suspicions. 
|de forbid the rector his house, attended the curate’s service, 
ind took Philip from his care. It was decided that both my 
sousin and [ were to go to King’s College after Christmas. 
Grafton’s conduct greatly pleased my grandfather. “He has 10 
yehaved very loyally in this matter, Richard,” he said to me. 
‘I grow to reproach myself more every day for the injustice I 
nce did him. He is heaping coals of fire upon my old head. - 
But, faith! I cannot stomach your Aunt Caroline. You do not 
seem to like your uncle, lad.” 

I answered that I did not. 
| “It was ever the Carvel way not to forget,’”’ he went on. 
‘Nevertheless, Grafton hath your welfare at heart, I think. 
dis affection for you as his brother’s son is great.” 
| Othat I had spoken the words that burned my tongue! 20 
Christmas fell upon Monday of that year, 1769. There was 
to be a ball at Upper Marlboro’ on the Friday before, to which 
many of us were invited. Though the morning came in with 
A blinding snowstorm from the north, the first of that winter, 
ibout ten of the clock we set out from Annapolis an exceeding 25 
nerry party, the ladies in four coaches-and-six, the gentlemen 
ind their servants riding at the wheels. We laughed and joked 
lespite the storm, and exchanged signals with the fair ones 
vehind the glasses. 





15 









| 


161 






762 RICHARD CARVEL 


But we had scarce got two miles beyond the town gate when 


a messenger overtook us with a note for Mr. Carvel, writ upor 
an odd slip of paper, and with great apparent hurry:— 


“HONOURED SIR, 
s ‘[T have but just come to Annapolis from New York, with 
Instructions to put into your Hands, & no Others, a Message 
of the greatest Import. Hearing you are but now set out fol 
Upper Marlboro’ I beg of you to return for half an Hour t& 
the Coffee House. By so doing you will be of service to 2 
10 Friend, and confer a Favour upon y’r most ob’dt Humbk 
iss 


Servant, 


*“S1zas RIDGEWAY.” 


Our cavalcade had halted while I read, the ladies letting 
down the glasses and leaning out in their concern lest somt 
15 trouble had befallen me or my grandfather. I answered them 
and bade them ride on, vowing that I would overtake tht 
coaches before they reached the Patuxent. Then | turne¢ 
-Cynthia’s head for town, with Hugo at my heels. | 
Patty, leaning from the window of the last coach, callec 
20 out to me as I passed. I waved my hand in return, and dic 
not remember until long after the anxiety in her eyes. 
As I rode, and I rode hard, I pondered over the words 6 
this letter. I knew not this Mr. Ridgeway from the Lon 
Mayor of London; but I came to the conclusion before I hat 
2s repassed the gate that his message was from Captain Daniel 
And I greatly feared that some evil had befallen my goo 
friend. So I came to the Coffee House, and throwing m 
bridle to Hugo, I ran in. 3 
I found Mr. Ridgeway neither in the long room nor in th 
30 billiard room nor the bar. Mr. Claude told me that indeed” 
man had arrived that morning from the North, a spare perso 
with a hooked nose and scant hair, in a brown greatcoat vt 
a torn cape. He had gone forth afoot half an hour sinc 
His messenger, a negro lad whose face I knew, was in 
3s stables with Hugo. He had never seen the stranger till 


SOUTH RIVER 163 


net him that morning in State Circle inquiring for Mr. 
Jarvel, and had been given a shilling to gallop after me. Im- 
yatient as I was to be gone, I sat me > down in the coffee room, 
hhinking every minute the man must return, and strongly 
ipprehensive that Captain Daniel must be in some grave pre- s 
licament. That the favour he asked was of such a nature as 
', and not my grandfather, could best fulfill. 

At length, about a quarter after noon, my man comes in 
vith Mr. “Claude close behind him. I liked his looks less than 
us description, and the moment I clapped eyes on him I knew 
hat Captain Daniel had never chosen such a messenger. 

“This is Mr. Richard Carvel,” said Mr. Claude. 
| The fellow made me a low bow, which I scarcely re- 
vurned. 

“Tam sure, sir,” he began in a whining voice, “that I crave 
rour. forbearance for this prodigious, stupid mistake I have 
nade.” | 

“Mistake!” I exclaimed hotly; “you mean to say, sir, that 
rou have brought me back for nothing?” 
| The man’s eye shifted, and he made me another bow. 
it I scarce know what to say, Mr. Carvel,” he answered with 
inuch humility; “to speak truth, ’twas zeal to my employers 
ind methought to you, that caused you to retrace your steps in 
his pestiferous storm. [ travel,” he proceeded with some im- 
Wetance, **T travel for Messrs. Rinnell and Runn, Barristers 
if the town of New York, and carry letters to men of mark 
ll over these middle and southern colonies. And my instruc- 
ions, sir, were to come to Annapolis with all reasonable speed 
vith this double-sealed enclosure for Mr. Carvel: and to de- 
iver it to him, and him only, the very moment I arrived. As 
| came through your town I made inquiries, and was told by 
| black fellow in the Circle that Mr. Carvel was but just left 
or Upper Marlboro’ with a cavalcade of four coaches-and-six 
ind some dozen gentlemen with their servants. I am sure my 
mistake was pardonable, Mr. Carvel,’ he concluded with a 
mirk; “this gentleman was plainly ‘of the first quality, as 
ivas he to whom I was directed. And as he was abcut to leave 


I 











i 


fe} 


Lal 


5 


35 


164 RICHARD CARVEL 


ieee for I knew not how long, I hope I was in the righ in 
bidding the black ride after him, for I give you my word the 
business was most pressing for him. I crave your forgiveness, 
and the pleasure of drinking your honour’s health.” 
I barely heard the fellow through, and was turning on my 
“heel in disgust, when it struck me to ask him what Mr. Car 
vel he sought, for I feared lest my grandfather had got into 
some lawsuit. + 
“ And it please your honour, Mr. Grafton Carvel,” said he; 
zo“your uncle, I understand. Unfortunately he has ge ne 
to his estate in Kent County, whither I must now fol 
low him.” 

I bade Mr. Claude summon my servant, not stopping t 
question the man further, such was my resentment agains! 
rshim. And in ten minutes we were out of the town again, gak 


loping between the nearly filled tracks of the coaches, ‘se 











three hours ahead of us. The storm was increasing, an 
wind cutting, but I dug into Cynthia so that poor Hugo 
put to it to hold the pace, and, tho’ he had a pint of rum 
20 him, was near perished with the cold. As my anger coolec 
somewhat I began to wonder how Mr. Silas Ridgeway, who 
ever he was, could have been such a simpleton as his stor 
made him out. Indeed, he looked more the rogue than the ass 
nor could I conceive how reliable barristers could hire such) 
as one. I wished heartily that I had exhausted him further, ani 
a suspicion crossed my brain that he might have come to Mi 
Allen, who had persuaded him to deliver a letter to Grafto) 
intended for me. Some foreboding beset me, and I was one 
close to a full mind for going back, and slacked Cynthia 
go pace to a trot. But the thought of the pleasures at Upp 
Marlboro’ and the hope of overtaking the party at Mr. Do 
sey’s place, over the Patuxent, where they looked to dine, di 
cided me in pushing on. And thus we came to South Rive} 
with the snow so thick that we could scarce see ten yards 1 
3s front of us. B | 
Beyond, the road winds up the hill around the end of M 
Wiley’s plantation and plunges shortly into the woods, gt 


/ 
| 


J 








hie 
f 


| SOUTH RIVER Br 


and cold indeed to-day. At their skirt a trail branches off 
which leads to Mr. Wiley’s warehouses, on the water’s edge a 
nile or so below. And I marked that this path was freshly 
wodden. I recall a small shock of surprise at this, for the 
way was used only in the early autumn to connect with some 5 
ields beyond the hill. And then I heard a sharp cry from 
'dugo and pulled Cynthia short. He was some ten paces be- 
ind me. 

| “Marse Dick!” he shouted, the whites of his eyes rolled up. 
(‘We’se gwine to be robbed, Marse Dick.” And he pointed to 10 
she footprints in the snow; “somefin done tole Hugo not come 
so-day.”’ 

| “Nonsense!” I cried; “Mr. Wiley is making his lazy beggars 
‘ut wood against Christmas.” 

| When in this temper the poor fellow had more fear of mezs 
‘han of aught else, and he closed up to my horse’s flank, 
slancing apprehensively to the right and left, his teeth rat- 
ling. We went at a brisk trot. We know not, indeed, how to 
uecount for many things in this world, for with each beat of 
Dynthia’s feet I found myself repeating the words South 20 
Raver and Marlboro’, and seeking in my mind a connection 
0 something gone before. Then, like a sudden gust of wind, 
somes to me that strange talk between Grafton and the rector, 
yverheard by old Harvey in the stables at Carvel Hall. And 
Uynthia’s ears were pointing forward. 25 
_ With a quick impulse I loosed the lower frogs of my coat, 
‘or my sword was buckled beneath, and was reaching for one 
of the brace of pistols in my saddle-bags. I had but released 
them when Hugo cried out: “‘Gawd, Marse Dick, run for yo 
ife!” and I caught a glimpse of him flying down the road. 30 
As I turned a shot rang out, Cynthia reared high with a rough 
srute of a fellow clinging to her bridle. I sent my charge full 
nto his chest, and as he tumbled in the snow I dug my spurs 

‘o the rowels. 

_ What happened then is still a blurred picture in my brain. 35 
Know that Cynthia was shot from under me before she had 
cen her leap, and we fell heavily together.. And I was 










166 RICHARD CARVEL 


scarcely up again and my sword drawn, when the villain 
were pressing me from all sides. I remember spitting but one 
and then I heard a great seafaring oath, the first word out © 
their mouths, and I was felled from behind with a might 


5 blow. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


THE “BLACK MOLL” 


I HAVE no intention, my dears, of dwelling upon that part 
#f my adventures which must be as painful to you as to me, 
he very recollection of which, after all these years, suffices to 
tause the blood within me to run cold. In my youth men 
vhose natures shrank not from encounter with their enemies 5 
acked not, I warrant you, a checkered experience. Those of 
is who are wound the tightest go the farthest and strike the 
iardest. Nor is it difficult for one, the last of whose life is 
eing recorded, to review the outspread roll of it, and trace 
he unerring forces which have drawn for themselves. 10 

Some, indeed, traverse this world weighing, before they 
artake, pleasure and business alike. But I am not sure, my 
thildren, that they better themselves; or that God, in His 
il-wise judgment, prefers them to such as are guided by the 
livine impulse with which He has endowed them. Far be it 35 
rom me to advise rashness or imprudence, as such; nor do | 
delieve you will take me so. But I say unto you: do that 
which i is right, and let God, not man, be your interpreter. 
| My narrative awaits me. 


| “I came to my wits with an immoderate feeling of faintness 20 
ind sickness, with no more remembrance of things past than 
fas a man bereft of reason. And for some time I swung 
Detween sense and oblivion before an overpowering stench 
forced itself upon my nostrils, accompanied by a creaking, 
straining sound and sweeping motion. I could see nothing 25 
for the pitchy blackness. Then [ recalled what had befallen 
me, and cried aloud to God in my anguish, for I well knew 
[had been carried aboard ship, and was at sea. I had often- 


167 





: 
| 





168 RICHARD CARVEL : 
times heard of the notorious press-gang which supplied the 
need of the King’s navy, and my first thought was that I had 
fallen in their clutches. But I wondered that they had dare 
attack a person of my consequence. : 
s Lhadno pain. I lay ina bunk that felt gritty and greasy 
to the touch, and my hair was matted behind by a clot of 
blood. I had been stripped of my clothes, and put into some 
coarse and rough material, the colour and condition of which 
I could not see for want of light. I began to cast about me, 
ro to examine the size of the bunk, which I found to be id ol 


i 
ti 


and plainly at some distance from the deck, for I laid hold 
upon one of the rough beams above me. By its curvature: 
knew it to be a knee, and thus I came to the caulked sides 
the vessel, and for the first time heard the rattling thud a 
1s swish of water on the far side of it. I had no sooner made this 
discovery, which drew from me an involuntary groan, whena 
ship’s lanthorn was of a sudden thrust over me, and I per 
ceived behind it a head covered with shaggy hair and beard, 
and beetling brows. Never had I been in such a terrifying 
20 presence. » 
“Damn my blood and bones, life signals at last! Another 
three bells gone, my silks and laces, and we had given you to 
the sharks.” y 
The man hung his lanthorn to a hook on the beam, and 
os thrust a case-bottle of rum toward me, at the same time bit- 
ing off a great quid of tobacco. For all my alarm I saw that 
his manner was not unkindly, and as I was conscious of a 
consuming thirst I seized and tipped it eagerly. A 
“?Tis no fine Madeira, my blood,” said he, “such as I faney 
30 your palate is acquainted with. Yet ’tis as fair a Jamaica at 
ever Griggs put ashore i’ the dark.” ¥ 
“Griggs!” I cried, the whole affair coming to me: Griggs 
Upper Marlboro’, South River, Grafton and the rector plot: 
ting in the stalls, and Mr. Silas Ridgeway the accomplice. * 
35 ‘Ay, Griggs,” replied he; “ye may well repeat it, thea 
V’ll lay a puncheon he’ll be hailing you shortly. Guine), 
Griggs, Gold-Coast Griggs, Smuggler Griggs, Skull-and-Bone 





ie 


| THE “BLACK MOLL” 169 


Griggs. Damn his soul and eyes, he hath sent to damnation 
many a ship’s company.’ 

He drained what remained of the bottle, took down the lan- 
thorn, and left me sufficiently terrified to reflect upon my sit- 
uation, which I found desperate enough, my dears. J have nos 
words to describe what I went through in that vile, foul- 
smelling place. My tears flowed fast when I thought of my 
grandfather and of the dear friends I had left behind, and of 
Dorothy, whom I never hoped to see again. And then; per- 
chance’ twas the rum put heart into me, “T vowed I would face 10 
ithe matter: show this cut-throat of a Griggs a bold front. 
Had he meant to murder me, I reflected, he had done the 
business long since. Then I fell asleep. 

I awoke, I know not how soon, to discover the same shaggy 
‘countenance, and the lanthorn. 15 
/ “Canst walk, Mechlin?” says he. 

©I can try, at least,” I answered. 
| He seemed pleased at this. 

“You have courage a-plenty, and, by G—, you will have 
med of it all with that of a Griges!” He gave me his 20 
bottle again, and assisted me down, and I| found that my legs, 
jsave for the rocking of the ship, were steady enough. I fol- 
lowed him out of the hole in which I had lain on to a deck, 
which, in the half light, I saw covered with slush and filth. 
‘It was small, and but dimly illuminated by a hatchway, up 
ithe which I pushed after him, and then another. And so we 
came to the light of day, which near blinded me: so that I 
was fain to clap my hands to mine eyes, and stood for a space 
looking about me like a man dazed. The wind, tho’ blowing 
stiff, was mild, and league after league of the green sea danced 30 
and foamed in the morning sunlight, and I perceived that I 
was on a large schooner under full sail, the crew of which were 
littered about at different occupations. Some gaming and 
‘some drinking, while on the forecastle two men were settling 
a dispute at fisticuffs. And they gave me no more notice, nor 35 
‘as much, then I had been a baboon thrust among them. From 
this indifference to a captive I argued no good. Then my con- 








iS) 


5 















170 RICHARD CARVEL 


ductor, whom I rightly judged to be the mate of this devi 
crew, took me roughly by the shoulder and bade me accoifs 
pany him to the cabin. 
As we drew near the topgallant poop there sounded in my 
sears a noise like a tempest, which I soon became’ aware was a 
man swearing with a prodigious vehemence in a foghorn ofa 
voice. “’Sdeath and wounds! Where is that dogfish of 
a Cockle? Damn his entrails, and he is not come soon, I'l 
masthead him naked, by the seven hold spritsails!” And 
romuch more and worse to the same tune until we passed the 
door and stood before him, when he let out an oath like the 
death-cry of a monster. J 
He was a short, lean man with a leathery face and lone, 
black ropy hair, and beady black eyes that caught the light 
15 like a cat’s. His looks, indeed, would have scared a timid per 
son into a fit; but I resolved I would die rather than show the 
fear with which he inspired me. He was dressed in an old 
navy uniform with dirty lace. His cabin was bare enough, 
being scattered about with pistols and muskets and cola 
20 with a ragged pallet in one corner, and he sat behind an oake 
table covered with greasy charts and spilled liquor and tobacco, 
“So ho, you are risen from the dead, are you, my fine buck! 
Mr. What-do-they-call-you?” cried the captain, with a word 
as foul as any he had yet uttered. “By the Lord, you shall pay 
25 for running my bo’sun through!” , 
“And by the Lord, Captain What’s-your-name,” I criec 
back, for the rum I had.taken had heated me, “you and y 
fellow-rascals shall pay in blood for this villainous injury!” 
Griggs got to his feet and seized his hanger, his face lik 
30 livid marble seamed with blue. And from force of habit | 
made motion for my sword, to make the shameful discover 
that I was clothed from head to foot in linsey-woolsey. 
““G— d— my soul,” he roared, “if I don’t slit you like: 
herring! The devil burn me to a cinder if I don’t give you 
35 guts to the sharks!” And he made at me in such a fury that, 
would certainly have been cut to pieces had I not grasped; 
cutlass and parried his blow, Cockle looking on with his jay 













THE “BLACK MOLL” rg 


dropped like a peak without haulyards. With a stroke of my 
weapon | disarmed Captain Griggs, his sword flying through 
the cabin window. For I made up my mind I would better 
die fighting than expire at a hideous torture, which I doubted 
not he would inflict, and so I took up a posture of defence, 5 
with one eye on the mate; despite the kind offices of the lat- 
ter below I knew not whether he were disposed to befriend me 
before the captain. What was my astonishment, therefore, 
to behold Grige’s truculent manner change. 

“ Avast, my man-o’-war,”‘he cried; “blood and wounds! I 10 
had more than an eye when they brought thee aboard, else I 
would have killed thee like a sucking-pig under the forecastle, 
as | have given oath to do. By the Ghost, you are worth seven 
of that Roger Spratt whom you sent to hell in his boots.” 

Wherewith Cockle, who for all his terrible appearance stood 15 
in a miehty awe of his captain, set up a loud laugh, and vowed 
that Griggs knew a man when he spared me, and was cursed 
for his pains. 
| “So you were contracted to murder me, Captain Griggs?” 
said I. - 20 

Ay,” he replied a devilish gleam coming into his eye, “but 
I have now got you and the money to boot. But harkye, Pll 
stand by my half of the bargain, by G—. If ever you reach 
Maryland alive, they may hang me to the yardarm of a ship- 
of-the-line.” } 25 








| And I live long enough, my dears, I hope some day to write 
for you the account of all that befell me on this slaver, Black 
Moil, for so she was called. "PT would but delay my story now. 
Suffice it to say that we sailed for a fortnight or so in the West 
India seas. From some observations that fell from the mouth 30 
of Griggs I gathered that he was searching for an island 
which evaded him; and each day added to his vexation at not 
finding it. At times he was drunk for forty hours at a stretch, 
hen he would shut himself in his cabin and leave his ship to 
he care of Cockle, who navigated with the sober portion of 35 
he crew. And such a lousy, brawling lot of convicts I had 

























172 RICHARD CARVEL 


never clapped eyes upon. As for me, I was treated indiftl - 
ently well, though ’twas in truth punishment enough to live m 
that filthy ship, to eat their shins of beef and briny pork and 
wormy biscuit, to wear rough clothes that chafed my skin. 7 

5 shared Cockle’s cabin, in every way as dirty a place as the den 
I had left, but with the advantage of air, for which I fer 
vently thanked God. 4 

I think the mate had some little friendship for me, though 

he was too hardened by the life he had led to care a deal what 
zo became of me. He encouraged’ me secretly to continue té 
beard Griggs as I had begun, saying that it was my sole 
chance of a whole skin, and vowing that if he had had the 
courage to pursue the same course his own back had not bee 
checkered like a grating. He told me stories of the captains 
rs cruelty which I dare not repeat for their very horror, and im 
deed I lacked not for instances to substantiate what he said; 
men with their backs beaten to a pulp, and others with ears 
cut off, and mouths slit, and toes missing. So that I lived m 
hourly fear lest in some drunken fit Griggs might command 
20me to be tortured. But, fortunately, he held small converse 
with me, and when sober busied himself in trying to find the 
island and in cursing the fate by which it eluded him. 4 
So I existed, and prayed daily for deliverance. I plied 
Cockle with questions as to what they purposed doing with 
25 me, but he was wont to turn sulky, and would answer me not 
a word. But once, when he was deeper in his cups than com: 
mon, he let me know that Griggs was to sell me-to a certain 
planter. You may well believe that this did not serve to liven 
my spirits. 
30 At length, one morning, Captain Griggs came out of his 
cabin and climbed upon the poop, calling all hands aft to the 
quarter-deck. Whereupon he proceeded to make them a 
speech that for vileness exceeded aught I have ever heard 
before or since. He finished by reminding them that this was 
35 the anniversary of the scuttling of the sloop Jane, which ha 
made them all rich a year betares off the Canaries; the day 
that he had sent three and twenty men over the plank to he 





a 
ft 
’ 
we 


‘, THE “BLACK:MOLL” > 173 


Wherefore he decreed a holiday, as the weather was bright and 
the trades light, and-would serve quadruple portions of rum to 
every man jack aboard; and they set up a cheer that startled 
the Mother Careys astern. 

_ I have no language to depict the bestiality of that day; and 5 
if I had I would think it sin to write of it. The helm was 
lashed on the port tack, the haulyards set taut, and all hands 
down to the lad who was the cook’s scullion proceeded to get 
drunk. I took the precaution to have a hanger at my side and 
‘to slip one of Cockle’s pistols within the band of my breeches. 10 
I was in an exquisite agony of indecision as to what manner 
‘to act and how to defend myself from their drunken brutality, 
for I well knew that if I refused to imbibe with them I should 
probably be murdered for my abstemiousness; and, if I drank, 
the stuff was so near to alcohol that I could not hope to keep rs 
my senses. While in this predicament I received a polite 
‘myitation to partake in the captain’s company, which [| did 
‘Mot see my way clear to refuse, and repaired to the cabin 
accordingly. 
| There I found Griggs and Cockle seated, and a fair-sized 20 
Darrel of rum betwess them that the captain had just moved 
‘thither. By way of welcome he shot at me a volley of curses 
'and bade me to fill up, and through fear of offending him I 
| took down my first mug with a fair good grace. ‘Then, in his 
Own particular language, he began the account of the capture 
of the Jane, taking care in the pauses to see that my mug was 
fall. But, as luck would have it, he got no farther than the 
Boarding by the Black Moll’s crew, when he fell to squabbling 
with Cockle as to who had been the first man over the side; 
and while they were settling this difference I grasped the 3c 
pportunity to escape. 
_ The maudlin scene that met my eyes on deck defies descrip- 
tion; some were fighting, others grinning with a hideous 
ghter, and still others shouting tavern jokes unspeakable. 
(nd suddenly, whilst I was observing these things from a 35 
uche behind the cabin door, I heard the captain cry from 
vithin, ““The ensign, the ensign!”’ Forgetting his dispute with 


J 





bo 
wn 











174 RICHARD CARVEL 


Cockle, he bumped past me and made his way with so 
trouble to the poop. I climbed the ladder after him, and 
my horror beheld him in a drunken frenzy drag a black fl 
with a rudely painted skull and cross-bones from the signal= 
s chest, and with uncertain fingers toggle it to the ensign he 







yards and hoist to the peak, where it fluttered grimly in t 
light wind like an evil augur on a fair day. At sight of it t 
wretches on deck fell to shouting and huzzaing, Griggs stan 
ing leering up at it. Then he sravely pulled off his hat q 
ro made it a bow, and turned upon me. 
Salute it, ye lubberly ! Ye are no first-rate here? 
he thundered. ‘Salute the flag!” 








Unless fear had kept me sober, ’tis past my understandi 
why I was not as drunk as he. Be that as it may,.I was ne 
13as quarrelsome, and would as soon have worshipped if 

golden calf as saluted that rag. I flung back some reply, 
he lugged out and came at me with a spring like a wild beast; 
and his men below, seeing us fall out, made a rush for the 
poop with knives and cutlasses drawn. Betwixt them ane 
20 should soon have been in slivers had not the main shrouds 
fered themselves handy. And up them I sprang, the captai 
cutting at my legs as I left the sheer-pole, and I stopped n 
until E reached thie schooner’s cross-trees, where I drew 
cutlass. They pranced around the mast and showered 
25 with oaths, for all the world like a lot of howling dogs | 
had treed a cat. 
I began to feel somewhat easier, and cried aloud that ‘s 











first of them who came up after me would go down again 
two pieces. Despite my warning a brace essayed to climb the 
30 ratlines, as pitiable an attempt as ever | witnessed, and fell 
to the deck again. “Iwas a miracle that they missed fall ng 
into the sea. And after a while, becoming convinced that they 
could not get at me, and being too far gone to shoot with any 
accuracy, they tumbled off the poop swearing to serve me ina 
3s hundred horrible ways when they caught me, and fell again to 
drinking and quarrelling amongst themselves. I was indeed 
in an unenviable plight, by no means sure that I would not be 


THE “BLACK MOLL” 175 


slain out of hand when they became sufficiently sober to cap- 
ture me. As I marked the progress of their damnable orgy | 
cast about for some plan to take advantage of their condition. 
L observed that a stupor was already beginning to overcome 
a few of them. Then suddenly an incident happened to drive 5 
all else from my mind. 

Nothing less, my dears, than a white speck of sail gleaming 
on the southern horizon! 

For an hour I watched it, now in a shiver of apprehension 
lest it pass us by, now weeping in an ecstasy of joy over a pos- 10 
sible deliverance. But it grew steadily larger, and when about 
three miles on our port bow I saw that the ship was a brigan- 
tine. Though she had long been in sight from our deck, ’twas 
not until now that she was made out by a man on the fore- 
castle, who set up a cry that brought about him all who1s 
could reel thither, Griggs staggering out of his cabin and to 
the nettings. The sight sobered him somewhat, for he imme- 
diately shouted orders to cast loose the guns, himself tearing 
the breeching from the nine-pounder next him and taking out 
the tompion. About half the crew were in a liquorish stupor 20 
from which the trump itself could scarce have aroused them; 
the rest responded with savage oaths, swore that they would 
boil their suppers in the blood of the brigantine’s men and give 
their corpses to the sea. They fell to work on the port battery 
in so ludicrous a manner that I was fain to laugh despite the 25 
gravity of the situation. But when they came to rig the 
powder-hoist and a couple of them descended into the maga- 
zine with pipes lighted, I was in imminent expectation of be- 
ing blown as high as a kite. 

So absorbed had I been in these preparations that I neg-30 
lected to watch the brigantine, which I discovered to be stand- 
ing on and off in a very undecided manner, as though hesitat- 
ing to attack. My spirits fell again at this, for with all my 
inexperience I knew her to be a better sailer than the Black 
Moll. Her master, as Griggs remarked, “was no. d—d slouch- 35 
ing lubber, and knew a yardarm from a rattan cane.” 
Finally, about six bells.of the watch, the stranger wore ship 







fs 
176 RICHARD CARVEL | 
and bore down across our bows, hoisting English colours, F | 
sight of which I could scarce forbear a cheer. At this instant, | 
Captain Griggs woke to the fact that his helm was still lashed, 
and bestowing a hearty kick on his prostrate quartermaster | 
5 stuck fast to the pitchy seams of the deck, took the wheel him- 
self, and easing off before the wind to bring the vessels broad- 
side to broadside, commanded that the guns be shotted to the” 
muzzle, an order that was barely executed before the brigan- 
tine came within close range. Aboard her was all order and 
ro readiness; the men at her guns fuse in hand, an erect and 
pompous figure of a man, in a cocked hat, on the break of her 
poop. He raised his hand, two puffs of white smoke darted 
out, and J heard first the shrieking of shot, the broadside came 
crashing round us, one tearing through the mainsail below me, 
15 another mangling two men in the waist of our schooner, and 
Griggs gave the order to touch off. But two of his guns 
answered, one of which had been so gorged with shot that it 
burst in a hundred pieces and sent the fellow with the swab 
to perdition, and such a hell of blood and confusion as resulted 
201s indescribable. I saw Griggs in a wild fit of rage force the 
helm down, the schooner flying into the wind. And by this” 
time, the brigantine having got round and presented her port 
battery, raked us at a bare hundred yards, and I was the first’ 
to guess by the tilting forward of the mast that our hull was 
25 hit between wind and water, and was fast settling by the bow. — 
The schooner was sinking like a gallipot. 4 
That day, with the sea flashing blue and white in the sun, I 
saw men go to death with a curse upon their lips and a fever 
in their eyes, with murder and defiance’of God’s holy will in 
30 their hearts. Overtaken in bestiality, like the judgment of — 
Nineveh, five and twenty disappeared from beneath me, and I 
had scarce the time to throw off my cutlass before I, too, was 


engulfed. So expired the Black Moll, 








CHAPTER XIX 


A MAN OF DESTINY 


I was picked up and thrown into the brigantine’s long-boat 
with a head and stomach full of salt water, and a heart as 
light as spray with the joy of it all. A big, red-bearded man 
lifted my heels to drain me. 

“The mon’s deid,”’ said he. 5 
_ “Dead!” cried I, from the bottom-board. “No more dead 
than you!” 

I turned over so lustily that he dropped my feet, and I sat 
up, something to his consternation. And they had scarce 
hooked the ship’s side when I sprang up the sea-ladder, to the zo 
great gaping of the boat’s crew, and stood with the water run- 
ning off me in rivulets before the captain himself. I shall 
never forget the look of his face as he regarded my sorry figure. 

“Now by Saint Andrew,” exclaimed he, “are ye kelpie or 
pirate?” 15 
“Neither, captain,” I replied, smiling as the comical end of 

it came up to me, “but a young gentleman in misfortune.” 
“Hoots!” says he, frowning at the grinning half-circle 
about us, ‘‘it’s daft ye are—”’ 

_ But there he paused, and took of me a second sizing. How 20 
he got at my birth behind my tangled mat of hair and wring- 
ing linsey-woolsey I know not to this day. But he dropped 
his Scotch and merchant-captain’s manner, and was suddenly 

a French courtier, making me a bow that had done credit 
to a Richelieu. 25 
_ “Your servant, Mr.—” 

~ “Richard Carvel, of Carvel Hall, in his Majesty’s province 
of Maryland.” 


He seemed sufficiently impressed. 


177 





178 ~ RICHARD CARVEL 


“Your very humble servant, Mr. Carvel. "Tis in faith a 
privilege to be able to serve a gentleman.” 
He bowed me toward his cabin, and then in sharp, quick 
tones he gave an order.to his mate to get under way, and ] 
3 saw the men turning to the braces with wonder in their eyes. 
My own astonishment was as great. And so, with my clothe 
sucking to my body and a trail of water behind me like that 
of a wet walrus, I accompanied the captain aft. His quarters 
were indeed a contrast to those of Griggs, being so neat that 
ro] paused at the door for fear of profaning them; but was so 
courteously bid to enter that I came on again. He summoned 
a boy from the round house. 
“William,” said he, “‘a bottle of my French brandy. And 
my compliments to Mr. MacMuir, and ask him for a suit of 
1s Clothes. You are a larger man than I, Mr. Carvel,” he said to 
me, “or I would fit you out according to your station.” 
I was too overwhelmed to speak. He poured out a liberal 
‘three fingers of brandy, and pledged me as handsomely as I 
had been an admiral come thither in mine own barge, instead 
20 of a ragged lad picked off a piratical slaver, with nothing save 
my bare word and address. “Iwas then I had space to note 
him more particularly. His skin was the rich colour of a 
well-seasoned ship’s bell, and he was of the middle’ height, 
owned a slight, graceful figure, tapering down at the waist 
25 like a top, which had set of a silk coat to perfection and 
soured the beaus with envy. His movements, however, had all 
the decision of a man of action and of force. But his eye it 
was took possession of me—an unfathomable, dark eye, which 
bore more toward melancholy than sternness, and yet had 
30 something of both. He wore a clean, ruffled shirt, an ex 
ceeding neat coat and breeches of blue broadcloth, with vlad 
burnished buttons, and white cotton stockings. Traly, this 
was a person to make one look twice, and think oftener. Then, 
as I went to pledge him, I, too, was caught for his name. 
ee aul cosgid whe: “John Paul, of the brigantine John, 
Kirkcudbright, i in the West India trade.” 
“Captain .Paul—” I began. But my gratitude stuck fa: 





ty 


; - A MAN OF DESTINY © 0 


n my throat and flowed out of my eyes. For the thought of ~ 
the horrors from which he had saved me for the first time 
swept over me; his own kind treatment overcame me, and | 
slubbered like a child. With that he turned his back. 

“Hoots,” says he, again, ‘dinna ye thank me. “Tis naeth- 5 
ng to scuttle a nest of vermin, but the duty of ilka man who 
sails the seas.” But this, having got the better of his emo- 
ton, he added: “ And if it has been my good fortune to save 
i gentleman, Mr. Carvel, I thank God for it, as you must.” 
_ Save for a slackness inside the leg and in the hips, Mac- 
Muir’s clothes fitted me well enough, and presently I reap- 
peared in the captain’s cabin rigged out in the mate’s shore 
suit of purplish drab, and brass-buckled shoes that came high 
over the instep, with my hair combed clear and tied with a rib- 
bon behind. I felt at last that I might lay some claim to 
respectability. And what was my surprise to find Captain 
Paul buried to his middle in a great chest, and the place 
strewn about with laced and broidered coats and waistcoats, 
frocks and Newmarkets, like any tailor’s shop in Church 
Street. So strange they looked in those tropical seas that he 20 
was near to catching me in a laugh as he straightened up. 
"Twas then I noted that he was a younger man than I had 
taken him for. 

~“You gentlemen from the southern colonies are too well 
nourished, by far,’’ says he; “you are apt to be large of chest 25 
and limb. ’Odds bods, Mr. Carvel, it grieves me to see you 
apparelled like a barber surgeon. If the good Lord had but 
made you smaller, now,” and he sighed, “how well this sky- 
blue frock had set. you off.” 
_ “Indeed I am content, and more, captain,” I replied with a 30 
smile, “and thankful to be safe amongst friends. Never, I 
assure you, have I had less desire for finery.” 
_ “Ay,” said he, “you may well say that, you who have worn 
silk all your life, and will the rest of it, and we get safe to 
port. But believe me, sir, the pleasure of seeing one of your 35 
a e and figure in such a coat as that would not be a small 


Lal 


° 





Lad 


5 












¢ 


ee 






180 RICHARD CARVEL 


a 
And disregarding my blushes and protests, he held up the 
watchet-blue frock against me, and it was near fitting me but 
for my breadth,—the skirts being prodigiously long. I won 
dered mightily what tailor had thrust this garment upor 
s him; its fashion was of the old king’s time, the cuffs slashed 
like a sea-oflicer’s uniform, and the shoulders made care 
fully round. But other thoughts were running within me 
then. Lg 
“Captain,” I cut in, “you are sailing eastward.” q 
xo “Yes, yes,” he-answered absently, fingering some Point 
d’Espagne. $ 
“There is no chance of touching in the colonies?” I per 
sisted. ‘= 
“Colonies? No,” said he, in the same abstraction; “I am 
15 making for the Solway, being long overdue. But what think 
you of this, Mr. Carvel?” 4 
And he held up a wondrous vellum-hole waistcoat of % 
gone-by vintage, and I saw how futile it were to attempt te 
lead him, while in that state of absorption, to topics ‘which 
2o touched my affair. Of a sudden the significance of what he 
had said crept over me, the word Solway repeating itself in 
my mind. That firth bordered England itself, and Dorothy 
was in London! I became reconciled. I had no particle of 
objection to the Solway save the uneasiness my grandfather 
23 would come through, which was beyond helping. Fate had 
ordered things well. ; - 
Then I fell to applauding, while the captain tried on (for 
he was not content with holding up) another frock of white 
drab, which, cuffs and pockets, I’ll take my oath mounted no 
3o less than twenty-four: another plain one of pink cut-velve i. 
tail coats of silk, heavily broidered with flowers, and satin 
waistcoats with narrow lace. He took an inconceivable enjoy- 
ment out of this parade, discoursing the while, like a nobleman 
with nothing but dress in his head, or, perhaps, like a master- 
35 cutter, about the turn of this or that lapel, the length from 
armpit to fold, and the number of buttonholes that wa: 
proper. And finally he exhibited with evident pride a pail 











A MAN OF DESTINY 181 


of doeskins that buttoned over the calf to be worn with high 
shoes, which I make sure he would have tried on likewise had 
he been offered the slightest encouragement. So he exploited 
the whole of his wardrobe, such an unlucky assortment of 
finery as I never wish to see again; all of which, however, 5 
became him marvellously, though I think he had looked well 
in anything. I hope I may be forgiven the perjury I did that 
day. I wondered greatly that such a foible should crop out 
in a man of otherwise sound sense and plain ability. 

At length, when the last chest was shut again and locked, 10 
and [ had exhausted my ingenuity at commendation, and my 
patience also, he turned to meas a man come out of a trance. 

*°Od’s fish, Mr. Carvel,” he cried, “you will be starved. I 
had forgot your state.” 

[I owned that hunger had nigh overcome me, whereupon he rs 
became very solicitous, bade the boy bring in supper at once, 
and in a short time we sat down together to the best meal | 
had seen for a month. It seemed like a year. Porridge, and 
bacon nicely done, and duff and ale, with the sea rushing past 
the cabin windows as we ate, touched into colour by the setting 20 
sun. Captain Paul did not mess with his mates, not he, and 
he gave me to understand that I was to share his cabin, apolo- 
gizing profusely for what he was pleased to call poor fare. He 
would have it that he, and not I, were receiving favour. 

_ “My dear sir,” he said once, “you cannot was what a bit 25 
of finery is to me, who has so little chance for the wearing of 
it. To discuss with a gentleman, a connoisseur (I know a bit 
of French, Mr. Carvel), is a pleasure I do not often come at.’ 

His simplicity 4 in this touched me; it was pathetic. 

_ “How know you I am a gentleman, Captain Paul?” I asked 30 
‘curiously. 

mI should lack discernment, sir,’ he retorted, with some 
heat, ‘ ‘if I could not see as much. Breeding shines through 
sackcloth, sir. Besides,’ he continued, in a milder tone, 
“the look of you is candour itself. Though I have not greatly 35 
he advantage of you in age, I have seen many men, and I 
know that such a face as yours cannot lie,”? 









182 RICHARD CARVEL 



























Here Mr. Lowrie, the second mate, came in with a repor 
and I remarked that he stood up hat in hand whilst makin 
it, very much as if Captain Paul commanded a frigate. The 
captain went to a locker and brought forth some mello 

s Madeira, and after the mate had taken a glass of it standing, 
he withdrew. Then we lighted pipes and sat very cosey with 
a lanthorn swung between us, and Captain Paul expressed . 
wish to hear my story. 

I gave him my early history briefly, dwelling but casual 

10 upon the position enjoyed in Maryland by my family; but I 
spoke of my grandfather, now turning seventy, gray-haired im 
the service of King and province. The captain was indeed 
a most sympa athetic listener, now throwing in a question show= 
ing keen Scotch penetration, and anon making a most ludis 

1g crous inquiry as to the dress livery our footmen wore, an¢ 
whether Mr. Carvel used outriders when he travelled abroad. 
This was the other side of the man. As the wine warmed and 
the pipe soothed, I spoke at length of Grafton and the rector; 
and when | came to the wretched contrivance by which they 
20got me aboard the Black Moll, he was stalking hither and” 
thither about the cabin, his fists clenched and his voice 
thick, breaking into Scotch again and vowing that hell were” 
too sood for such as they. 4 

Hi indignation, which seemed real and generous, cand 

2s formed him into another man. He showered question afte 
question upon me concerning my uncle and Mr. Allen; de 
clared that he had known many villains, but had yet to hear 
of their equals; and finally, cooling a little, gave it as his 
judgment that the crime could never be brought home to 

30 them. This was my own opinion. He advised me, before we 
turned in, to ‘‘gie the parson a crunt” as soon as ever I could 
lay hands upon him. 


The John made a good voyage for that season, with fat 
winds and clear skies for the most part. *Twas a stout ship. 
3s and a steady, with generous breadth of beam, and kept by the 
master as clean and bright as his porringer. He was Empero 


A MAN OF DESTINY 183 


aboard her. He spelt Command with a large C, and when he 
inspected, his jacks stood to attention like man-o’-war’s men. 
The /ohn mounting only four guns, and but two of them 
nine-pounders, I expressed my astonishment that he had 
dared attack:a pirate craft like the Black Moll, without know- 
ing her condition and armament. 

“Richard,” says he, impressively, for we had become very 
friendly, “I would close with a thirty-two and she flew that 
flag. Why, sir, a bold front is half the battle, using circum- 
“spection, of a course. A pretty woman, whatever her airs and 

quality, is to be carried the same way, and a man ought never 
‘to be frightened by appearances.” 

_ Sometimes, at our meals, we discussed politics. But he 
seemed lukewarm upon this subject. He had told me that 
he had a brother William in Virginia, who was a hot Patriot. 
The American quarrel seemed to interest him very little. I 
should like to underscore this last sentence, my dears, in view 
of what comes after. What he said on the topic leaned per- 
haps to the King’s side, tho’ he was careful to say nothing 
that would give me offence. I was not surprised, for I had 
made a fair guess of his ambitions. It is only honest to de- 
clare that in my soberer moments my estimate of his character 
suffered. But he was a strange man,—a genius, as I soon 
discovered, to rouse the most sluggish nature to enthusiasm. 

The joy of sailing is born into some men, and those who are 

marked for the sea go down thither like the very streams, to 
be salted. Whatever the sign, old Stanwix was not far wrong 
when he read it upon me, and ’twas no great while before I 
was part and parcel of the ship beneath. my feet, breathing 





5 


Io 


deep with her every motion. What feeling can compare with 30 


that I tasted when the brigantine lay on “her side, the silver 
spray hurling over the bulwarks and stinging me to life! Or, 
in the watches, to hear the sea lashing along her strakes in 
never ending music! I gave MacMuir his shore suit again, 


and hugely delighted and astonished Captain Paul by donning 35 


a jacket of Scotch wool and a pair of seaman’ s boots, and so 
became a sailor myself. I had no mind to sit idle the passage, 







184 RICHARD CARVEL 




















and the love of it, as I have said, was in me. In a fortnight 
went aloft with the best of the watch to reef topsails, and tr 
a foot-rope without losing head or balance, bent on earin 
and could lay hand on any lift, brace, sheet, or haulyards m 
s the racks. John Paul himself taught me to tack and we: 
ship, and MacMuir to stow a headsail. The craft came t 
me, as it were, in a hand-gallop. : 
At first I could make nothing of the crew, not being able t 
understand a word of their Scotch; but I remarked, from th 
ro first, that they were sour and sulky, and given to gatherings in 
knots when the captain or MacMuir had not the deck. For 
Mr. Lowrie, poor man, they-had. little respect. But they 
plainly feared the first mate, and John Paul most of all. O 
me their suspicion knew no bounds, and they would give mé 
15 gruff answers, or none, when I spoke to them. These things 
roused both curiosity and foreboding within me. ri 
Many a watch I paced thro’ with MacMuir, big and red and 
kindly, and I was not long in letting him know me the interest 
which Captain Paul had inspired within me. His own feeling 
20 for him was little short of idolatry. I had surmised much as 
to the rank of life from which the captain had sprung, but my 
astonishment was great when I was told that John Paul was 
the son of a poor gardener. a 
““A gardener’s son, Mr. MacMuir!” I repeated. 
25 ‘Just that,” said he, solemnly, “a guid man an’ haly was 
auld Paul. Unco puir, by reason o’ seven bairns. I kennt 
the daddie weel. I mak sma’ doubt the captain’ll tak ye 
hame wi’ him, syne the mither an’ sisters still be 7 the cot 
1 Mr. Craik’s croft.” | 
30 4“ Tell me, MacMuir,”’ said I, “‘is not the captain in some 
trouble?” 4 
For I knew that something, whatever it was, hung heavy on 
John Paul’s mind as we drew nearer Scotland. At times his 
brow would cloud and he would fall silent in the midst of 
3sjest. And that night, with the stars jumping and the at 
biting cold (for we were up in the 40's), and the John wish= 
washing through the seas at three leagues the hour, MacMui 


A MAN OF ‘DESTINY 185 


told me the story of Mungo Maxwell. You may read it for 
yourselves, my dears, in the life of John Paul Jones. 

“Wae’s me!” he said, with a heave of his big chest, “I reca’ 
as yestreen the night Maxwell cam aboord. The sun gaed 
ode a’ bluidy, an’ belyve the morn rose unco mirk an ’ dreary, 5 

* bullers! frae the west like muckle sowthers* wi white 
plumes. I tauld the captain | twas a’ the faut 0’ Maxwell. I 
neer cad bide the blellum.? Dour an’ din‘ he was, wi’ ae girn 
like th’ auld hornie.® But the captain wadna hark to my rede 
when I tauld him naught but dool® wad coom o’ taking 10 
Mungo.” 

It seemed that John Paul, contrary to MacMuir’s advice, 
had shipped as carpenter on the voyage out—near seven 
months since—a man by the name of Mungo Maxwell. The 
eaptain’s motive had nothing in it but kindness, and a laud- rs 
able desire to do a good turn to a playmate of his boyhood. 
As MacMuir said, ‘‘ they had gaed barefit thegither amang the 
braes.”’ ‘he man hailed from Kirkbean, John Paul’s own par- 
ish. But he had within him little of the milk of kindness, | 
being in truth a sour and mutinous devil; and instead of the 20 
gratitude he might have shown, he cursed the fate that had 
placed him under the gardener’s son, whom he deemed no bet- 
ter than himself. The John had scarce cleared the Solway 
before Maxwell showed signs of impudence and rebellion. 

The crew was three-fourths made of Kirkcudbright men 25 
who had known the master from childhood, many of them, 
indeed, being older than he; they were mostly jealous of 
Paul, envious of the eoramenad he had attained to over them, 
and impatient under the discipline he was ever ready to 
inflict. “Tis no light task to enforce obedience from those 3e 
with whom one has -bird-nested. But, having more than 
once felt the weight of his hand they feared him. 

_ Dissatisfaction among such spreads apace, if a leader is but 
given; and Maxwell was such a one. His hatred for John 
Bs 1Rollers. 4Sour and sullen. , 
Soldiers. . . ’Devil. 


3] never could put up with the villain. 6Sorrow. 





186 RICHARD CARVEL 














Paul knew no bounds, and, having once tasted of his dis 
pleasure, he lay awake o’ nights scheming to ruin him. And 
this was the plot: when the Azores should be in the wake, 
Captain Paul was to be murdered as he paced his quarter 
5 deck. in the morning, the two mates clapt into irons, and so 
brought to submission. And Maxwell, who had no more notion” 
of navigation than a carpenter should, was to take the John 
to God knows where,—the Guinea coast, most probably. He 
would have no more navy regulations on a merchant brigan=_ 


Happily, MacMuir himself discovered: theaffanion the eve 
of its perpetration, overhearing two men talking in the bread= 
room, and he ran to the cabin mith the sweat standing out on 
his forehead. But the captain would have none of the pre- 

15 cautions he urged; declared he would walk the deck as usual, 
and vowed he could cope single-handed with a dozen cowards 

like Maxwell. Sure enough, at crowdie-time, the men were 
seen coming aft, with Maxwell in the van carrying a bowl, on 
the pretext of a complaint against the cook. J 
20 “John Paul,” said MacMuir, with admiration in his voice 
and gesture, “John Paul wasna feart a pickle,! but gaed to 
the mast, whyles I stannt chittering 1’ my claes,? fearfu’ for 
his life. He teuk the horn’? from Mungo, priet* a soup o 
the crowdie, an’ wi’ that he seiz’t haut o’ the man by baith 
2s shouthers ere the blastie® raught* for ’s knife. My aith 
upo’t, sir, the lave’ o’ the batch cowert frae his e’e for a’ the 
warld like thumpit tykes.®” . 
So ended the mutiny, by the brave act of a brave man. 
The carpenter was clapt into irons himself, and given no 
30 less of the cat-o’-nine-tails than was good for him, and prop 
erly discharged at Tobago with such as had supported him. 
But he brought Captain Paul before the vice-admiralty court 


“I Wittle bit. 5Scoundrel. 
2Shivering in my clothes. ®Reached. ; 
3Spoon. 7Rest. 4 
‘Tasted. 


8Cowered from his eye for all the world like whipt dogs. 


A MAN OF DESTINY _ 187 


of that place, charging him with gross cruelty, and this pro- 
ceeding had delayed the brigantine six months from her 
homeward voyage, to the great loss of her owners. And tho’ 
at length the captain was handsomely acquitted, ,his charac- 
ter suffered unjustly, for there lacked not those who put their 5 
own interpretation upon the affair. He would most probably 
lose the brigantine. ‘He expected as much,” said MacMuir. 

~ “There be mony aboord,” he concluded, with a sigh, “as’ll 
muckle gash! when we win to Kirkcudbright.” 


1Gossip. 








CHAPTER XX 


A SAD HOME-COMING 


Chae vale Re. Vis eink 4 el 


, 
Mr. Lowrie and Auctherlonnie, the Dumfries bo’sun; both 

of whom would have died for the captain, assured me of the 
truth of MacMuir’s story, and shook their heads gravely as to 
the probable outcome. ‘The peculiar watermark of greatness 

‘s that is woven into some men is often enough to set their own 
community bitter against them. Sandie, the plodding peasant 
finds it a hard matter to forgive Jamie, who is taken from 
the plough next to his, and ends in Parliament. The affair 
of Mungo Maxwell, altered to suit, had already made its 
ro way on more than one vessel to Scotland. For according to 
Lowrie, there was scarce a man or woman in Kirkcudbright 
shire who did not know that John Paul was. master of the 
John, and (in their hearts) that he would be master of 
more in days to come. Human nature is such that they 
15 resented it, and cried out aloud against his cruelty. * 
On the voyage I had many sober thoughts of my own to 
occupy me: of the terrible fate, from which, by Divine inter 
position, I had been rescued; of the home I had left behind. 

I was all that remained to Mr. Carvel in the world, and I was 
20 sure that he had given me up for dead. How had he sustainé 
the shock? I saw him heavily mounting the stairs upon 
Scipio’s arm when first the news was brought to him. Next 
Grafton would come hurrying in from Kent to Marlbor 
Street, disavowing all knowledge of the messenger from New 
25 York, and intent only upon comforting his father. And whe 
sa | pictured my uncle soothing him to “his face, and grinnif 
behind his bed-curtains, my anger would scald me, and th 
realization of my helplessness bring tears of very bitterness. 
What would I not have given then for one word with th | 


188 










A SAD HOME-COMING 189 


honest and faithful friend of our family, Captain Daniel! I 
knew that he suspected Grafton: he had told me as much that 
night at the Coffee House. Perhaps the greatest of my fears 
was that my uncle would deny him access to Mr. Carvel when 
he returned from the North. 

In the evening, when the sun settled red upon the horizon, 
I would think of Patty and my friends in Gloucester Street. 
For | knew they missed me sadly of a Sunday at the supper- 
table. But it has ever been my nature to turn forward in- 
stead of back, and to accept the twists and flings of fortune ro 
with hope rather than with discouragement. And so, as 
we left league after league of the blue ocean behind us, I 
would set my face to the forecastle. For Dorothy was in 
England. 
~ On a dazzling morning in March, with the brigantine run- 15 
ning like a beagle in full cry before a heaping sea that swayed 
her body,—so I beheld for the first time the misty green of 
the high shores of Ireland. Ah! of what heroes’ deeds was 
Ucapable as I watched the lines come out in bold relief from 
a wonderland of cloud! With what eternal life I seemed to 20 
angle! *Iwas as though I, Richard Carvel, had discovered 
all this colour; and when a tiny white speck of a cottage came 
out on the edge of the cliff, I thought irresistibly of the joy 
40 live there the year round with Dorothy, with the wind 
whistling about our gables, and the sea thundering on the 25 
‘ocks far below. Youth is in truth a mystery. 
_ How long I was gazing at the shifting coast I know not, for 
| strange wildness was within me that made me forget all 
Ise, until suddenly I became conscious of a presence at my 
ide, and turned to behold the captain. 30 
Tis a braw sight, Richard,” said he, “but no sae bonnie 
s auld Scotland. An’ the wind hauds, we shall see her 
hores the morn.” 
_ His voice broke, and I looked again to see two great tears 
‘olling upon his cheeks. 35 
“Ah, Scotland!’ he pressed on, heedless of them, ‘God 
\boon kens what she is to me! But she hasna’ been ower guid 


4 














190 RICHARD CARVEL b 
to me, laddie.” And he walked to the taffrail, and stood lool 


ing astern that two men who had come aft to: splice a hau 
yard might not perceive his disorder. I followed him, em- 
boldened to speak at last what was in me. 

s “Captain Paul,” said I, ‘MacMuir has told me of your 
trouble. My grandfather is rich, and not lacking in grat 
tude,”’—here I paused for suitable words, as I could not solve 
his expression,—“‘you, sir, whose bravery and charity will 
have restored me to him, shall not want for friends and 

ro money.” . 

He heard me through. ‘ 
“Mr. Carvel,” he replied with an impressiveness that took 


me aback, “reward is a thing that should not be spoken ol 
between gentlemen.” 
rs And thus he left me, upbraiding myself that I should have 
mentioned money. And yet, I reflected secondly, why not! 
He was no more nor less than a master of a merchantman, anc 
surely nothing was out of the common in such a one accepting 
what he had honestly come by. Had my affection for hin 
so been less sincere, had I not been racked with sympathy, I hae 
laughed over his notions of gentility. I resolved, however 
that when I had reached London and seen Mr. Dix, Mr. Car: 
vel’s agent, he should be rewarded despite his scruples. An¢ 
if he lost his ship, he should have one of my grandfather's. — 
2; But at dinner he had plainly forgot any offence, and I hac 
more cause than ever to be puzzled over his odd mixture 0 
confidence and aloofness. He talked gayly on a score of sti 
jects,—on dress, of which he was never tired, and describec 
ports in the Indies and South America, in a fashion tha 
30 betrayed prodigious powers of acute observation; nor did hy 
lack for wit when he spoke of the rich planters who hac 
wined him, and had me much in laughter. We fell into i 
merry mood, in sooth, jingling the glasses in many toasts, fo 
he had a list of healths to make me gasp, near as long as 
35 brigantine’s articles—Inez in_ Havana and Maraquita © 
Cartagena, and Clotilde, the Creole, of Martinico, each ha 
her separate charm. Then there was Bess, in Kingston, th 







| A SAD HOME-COMING 191 


‘relict of a customs official, Captain Paul relating with ingen- 
uous gusto a midnight brush with a lieutenant of his Majesty, 
in which the fair widow figured, and showed her preference, 
‘too. But his adoration for the ladies of the more northern 
colonies, he would have me to understand, was unbounded. 5 
‘For example, Miss Arabella Pope of Norfolk, in Virginia,— 
'and did I know her? No, I had not that pleasure, though I 
jassured him the Popes of Virginia were famed. Miss Pope 
danced divinely as any sylph, and the very memory of her 
‘tripping at the Norfolk Assembly roused the captain to such a x0 
‘pitch of enthusiasm as I had never seen in him. Marvellous 
|to say, his own words failed him, and he had recourse to the 

| poets :-— 


| F 
P “Her feet beneath her petticoat 15 
| p 


| Like little mice stole in and out, 
| As if they feared the light; 
| But, oh, she dances such a way! 
No sun upon an Easter-day 

Is half so fine a sight.” 





| 


The lines, he told me, were Sir John Suckling’s; and he 20 
gave them standing, in excellent voice and elegant gesture. 

He was in particular partial to the poets, cou Td quote at will 
‘from Gay and Thomson and Goldsmith and Gray, and even 
from Shakespeare, much to my own astonishment and humili- 
‘ation. Saving only Dr. Courtenay of Annapolis I had never 25 
met his equal for versatility of speech and command of fine 
language; and, having heard that he had been at sea since 
the age of aie, I made bold to ask him at what school he 
jhad got his knowledge. 
pe At none, Richard,” he answered with pride, “saving the 30 
udiments at the Patishi School at Kirkbean. Why, sir, Thold 
it to be within every man’s province to make himself what he 
bo and I early recognized in Learning the only guide for such 

as ime. I may say that I married her for the furtherance of 
r ny fortunes, and have come to love her for her own sake. 35 
any and many the ’tween-watch have I passed in a coil of 













192 RICHARD CARVEL 


















rope in the tops, a volume of the classics in my hand. 
my happiest days, when not at sea, have been spent in 
brother William’s little library. He hath a modest estate meas 
Fredericksburg, in Virginia, and none holds higher than he t 
s worth of education. Ah, Richard,” he added, with a certair 
sadness, “I fear you little know the value of that which hath 
been so iavishly bestowed upon you. There is no creation if 
the world to equal your fine gentleman!” Bs 
It struck me indeed as strange that a man of his powers 
ro should set store by such trumpery, and, too, that these notior 
had not impaired his ability as a seaman. I did not reply. 
He gave no heed, however, but drew from a case a number6 
odes and compositions, which he told me were his own. The 
were addressed to various of his inamoratas, abounded 7 
15 orrery, and were all, I make no doubt, incredibly fine, tho’ noi 
so much as one sticks in my mind. To speak truth | listene¢ 
with a very ill grace, longing the while to be on deck, for we 
were about to sight the Isle of Man. The wine and the air: 
the cabin had made my eyes heavy. But presently, when f 
2ohad run through with some dozen or more, he put them by 
and with a quick motion got from his chair, a light coming im} 
his dark eyes that startled me to attention. And I forgot tl 
merchant captain, and seemed to be looking forward into tl 
years. — 
os ‘Mark you, Richard,” said he, ‘mark well when'I say tha 
my time will come, and a day when the best of them will bey 
tome. And every ell of that triumph shall be mine, sir,—a} 
every inch!” _ 
Such was his force, which sprang from some hidden fir 
30 within him, that I believed his words as firmly as they h 
been writ down in the Book of Isaiah. Brimming over witt 
enthusiasm, I pledged his coming greatness in a reaming glas 
of Malaga. d 
“ Alack,” he cried, “‘an’ they all had your faith, laddie 
35 hg for the prophecy! Ye maun ken th’ incentive’s the mais 
o the battle.” i 
There was more of wisdom in this than I dreamed of the 


hed A SAD HOME-COMING 193 


Bere lay hid the very keynote of that ’ambitious character: 
ie stooped to nothing less than greatness for a triumph over 
‘iis slanderers. 
I rose betimes the next morning to find the sun peeping 
ibove the wavy line of the Scottish hills far up the Solway, s 
ind the brigantine sliding smoothly along in the lee of the 
‘Jalloway Rhinns. And, though the month was March, the 
° es of Burrow Head were green as the lawn of Carvel ‘Hall 
ay, and the slanting rays danced on the ruffed water. 
By eight of the clock we had crept into Kirkcudbright Bay 
ind anchored off St. Mary’s Isle, the tide running ebb, and 
‘eaving a wide brown belt of sand behind it. 
St. Mary’s Isle! As we looked upon it that day, John 
Paul and I, and it lay low against the bright water with its 
are oaks and chestnuts against the dark pines, *twas perhaps 15 
be well that the future was sealed to us. 

Captain Paul had conned the brigantine hither with a mas- 
ters hand; but now that the anchor was on the ground, he 
decame palpably nervous. I had donned again good Mac- 
Muir’s shore suit, and was standing by the gangway when 20 
the captain approached me. 
| “What’ll ye be doing now, Dickie lad?” he asked kindly. 
| What indeed! I was without money in a foreign port, still 
dependent upon my benefactor. And since he had declared 

unwillingness to accept any return I was of no mind to 25 
x0 farther into his debt. [ thanked him again for his good- 
aess in what sincere terms I could choose, and told Bur I 
should be obliged if he would put me in the way of working 
my passage to London upon some coasting vessel. But my 
voice was thick, my affection for him having grown past my 30 
understanding. — 

“Hoots!” he replied, moved in his turn, “whyles I hae 





4 


° 

















fits yere station.” 

‘And scouting my expostulations, he commanded the long- 35 
boat, bidding me be ready to go ashore with him. I had 
Mthing to do but to say farewell to MacMuir and Lowrie 





194. RICHARD CARVEL 








and Auctherlonnie, which was hard enough. For the honest 
first mate I had a great liking, and was touched beyor 
speech when he enjoined me to keep his shore suit as long € 
I had want of it. é 
5s “But you will be needing it, MacMuir,” I said, suspecti 
he had no other. 
“Haith! Tam but a plain man, Mr. Carvel, and ye can set 
back the claes frae London, wi’ this geordie.” | 
He slipped a guinea into my hand, but this I positivel 
ro refused to take; and to hide my feelings I climbed quick 
over the side and into the stern of the boat, beside the captain, 
and was rowed away through the little fleet of cobles gath 
ing about the ship. Twisting my neck for a parting look at 
the John, I caught a climpse of MacMuir’s ungainly shoul 
rs ders over the fokesle rail, and | was near to tears as h 
shouted a hearty ‘“‘God speed” after me. 
As we drew near the town of Kirkcudbright, which lies very 
low at the mouth of the river Dee, I made out a group of men 
and women on the wharves. The captain was silent, regardi 
20 them. When we had got within twenty feet or so of the land 
ing, a dame in a red woollen kerchief called out:— 
“What hae ye done wi’ Mungo, John Paul?” } 
“Captain John Paul, Mither Birkie,” spoke up a coar 
fellow with a rough beard, Anda laugh went round. ; 
2s “Ay, captain! I'll captain him!’ screamed the carlin 
pushing to the front as the oars were tossed, “I'll tak aith 
Mr. Currie’ll be captarning him for his towmond voyage 0 
piratin’. He be leukin’ for ye noo, John Paul.’ With that 
some of the men on the thwarts, perceiving that matters were 
30 likely to go ill with the captain, began to chaff with then 
friends above. The respect with which he had inspired them, 
however, prevented any overt insult on their part. As for me, 
my temper had flared up like the burning of a loose charge Ot 
powder, and by instinct my right hand sought the handle 
35 the mate’s hanger. The heldana saw the motion. % 
*“An’ hae ye murder’t MacMuir, John Paul, an’ gien’s clas 
toa Buckskin g gowk?” 











A SAD HOME-COMING 195 


The knot stirred with an angry murmur: in truth they 
‘meant violence,—nothing less. But they had counted with- 
out their man, for Paul was born to ride greater crises. With 
his lips set in a line he stepped lightly out of the boat into 
‘their very midst, and they looked into his eyes to forget time 5 
and place. MacMuir had told me how those eyes could con- 
quer mutiny, but I had not believed had I not been there to 
see the pack of them give back in sullen wonder. And so we 
walked through and on to the little street beyond, and never a 
word from the captain until we came opposite the sign of the 10 
“Hurcheon.” 

“Do you await me here, Richard,” he said quite calmly; “I 
must seek Mr. Currie, and make my report.” 

I have still the remembrance of that pitiful day in the clean 
little village. I went into the inn and sat down upon an oak 15 
settle in the corner of the bar, under the high lattice, and 
thought of the bitterness of this home-coming. If I was 
amongst strangers, he was amongst worse: verily, to have 
one’s own people set against one is heaviness of heart to a man 
whose love of Scotland was great as John Paul’s. After a 20 
while the place began to fill, Willie and Robbie and Jamie ar- 
riving to discuss Paul’s return over their nappy. Lhe little I 
could make of their talk was not to my liking, but for the 
‘captain’s sake I kept my anger under as best I could, for J had 
the sense to know that brawling with a‘lot of alehouse fre- 25 
quenters would not advance his cause. At length, however, 
came in the same sneering fellow | had marked on the wharf, 
calling loudly for swats. “Ay, Captain Paul was noo at Mr, 

urrie’s, syne banie Alan see’d him gang forbye the kirk.” 
The speaker's name, I learned, was Davie and he had been 30 
talking with each and every man in the long-boat. Yes, Mun- 
go Maxwell had been cat-o’-nine-tailed within an inch of his 
life; and that was the truth; for a trifling offence, too; and 
cruelly discharged at some outlandish port because, forsooth, 
he would not accept the gospel of the divinity of Captain Paul. 35 
He would as soon sign papers with the devil. 

This Davie was oifted with a dangerous kind of humour 


| 
: 
| 


. 


j 












' 


196 RICHARD CARVEL ' 


which I have heard called innuendo, and he soon had the bar 
packed with listeners who laughed and cursed turn about, 
filling the room ‘to a closeness scarce supportable. And what 
between the foul air and my resentment, and apprehensi 
slest John Paul would come hither after me, I was in prodig- 
ious discomfort of body and mind. But there was no pushing 
my way through them unnoticed, wedged as I-was in a far 
corner; so I sat still until unfortunately, or fortunately, t 
eye of Davie chanced to fall upon me, and immediately hi 
ro yellow face lighted malignantly. 

“Oh! here be the gentleman the captain’s brocht hameP? 
he cried, emphasizing the two words; ‘‘as braw a gentleman as 
eer taen frae pirates, an’ nae doubt sin to ae bien Buckskin 
bonnet-laird.”’ 

1s I saw through his game of getting satisfaction out of Jol 
Paul thro’ goading me, and determined he should have his fil] 
of it. For, “all in all, he had me mad enough to fight three 
times over. 4, 
“Set aside the gentleman,” said I, standing up and takin 
20 off MacMuir’s coat, “and call me a lubberly clout like your 
self, and we will see which is the better clout.” I put of th 
longsleeved jacket, and faced him with my fists doublet 
crying: “Ill teach you, you spawn of a dunghill, to speak il 
of a good man!” 
os A clamour of “Fecht! fecht!”’ arose, and some of them p | 
plauded me, calling me a “swankie,” which I believe is a com 
pliment. A certain sense of fairness is often to be foun¢ 
where least expected. They capsized the fat, protesting brow: 
ster-wife over her own stool, and were pulling Jamie’s coat 
30 from his back, when I began to suspect that a fight was not t 
the titimetles’s liking. Indeed, the very look of him made me 
laugh out— twas now as mild as a summer’s morn, % 

“Wow,” says Jamie, “ye maun fecht wi’ a man 0’ yere 2 

size.’ 
3s “Ul lay a guinea that we weigh even,” said I; and suddenly 
remembered that I had not so much as tuppence to bless n 
Happily he did not accept the wager. In huge disgust they 




















A SAD HOME-COMING 197 


hustled him from the inn and put forward the blacksmith, who 
was standing at the door in his leather apron. Now I had not 
bargained with the smith, who seemed a well-natured enough 
man, and grinned broadly at the prospect. But they made a 
ring on the floor, I going over it at one end, and he at thes 
other, when a cry came from the street, those about the én- 
trance parted, and in walked John Paul himself. At sight of . 
him my new adversary, who was preparing to deal me out a 
dlow to fell an ox, dropped his arms in surprise, and held 
out his big hand. ro 

“Haith! John Paul,” he shouted heartily, forgetting me, 
tis blythe I am to see yere bonnie face ance mair!”’ 

An’ wha are ye, Jamie Darrell,” said the captain, “to be 
yangin’ yere betters? Dinna ye ken gentry, when ye see’t?”’ 
| A puzzled look spread over the smith’s grimy face. 15 

“Gentry!” says he; “nae gentry that I ken, John Paul. 
Th’ fecht be but a bit o’ fun, an’ nane o’ my seekin’.” 
| “What quarrel is this, Richard?” says John Paul to me. 

“Tn truth I have no quarrel with this honest man,” I re- 
lied; “I desired but the pleasure of beating a certain evil- 20 
‘ongued Davie, who seems to have no stomach for blows, and 
bs taken his lies elsewhere.” 

So quiet was the place that the tinkle of the guidwife’s 
teed. which she had dropped to the flags, sounded clear to 
il. John Paul stood in the middle of the ring, erect, like aees 
‘nan inspired, and the same strange sense of prophecy that had 
‘tirred my blood crept over him and awed the rest, as tho’ 
‘twere suddenly given to see him, not as he was, but as he 
vould be. Then he spoke. 

_ “You, who are my countrymen, who should be my oldest 30 
nd best friends, are become my enemies. You who were com- 
anions of my childhood are revilers of my manhood; you 
iave robbed me of my good name and my honour, of my ‘ship, 
of my very means of livelihood, and you are not content; you 
vould rob me of my country, ‘which I hold dearer than all. 35 
Ivey have never done you evil, nor spoken aught against you. 
s for the man Maxwell, whose part you take, his child is 








198 RICHARD CARVEL ° 


starving in your very midst, and you have not lifted you 

hands. *Iwas for her sake I shipped him, and none other 

May God forgive you! He alone sees the bitterness in m 

heart this day. He alone knows my love for Scotland, am 
s what it costs me to renounce her.” 

He had said so much with an infinite sadness, and I read | 
response in the eyes of more than one of his listeners, th 
guidwife weeping aloud. But now his voice rose, and he ende 
with a flery vigour. 

ro ‘“Renounce her I do,” he cried, “now and forever more 
Henceforth I am no countryman of yours. And if a day ¢ 
repentance should come for this evil, remember well what) 
have said to you.” ones 

They stood for a moment when he had finished, shifting un 

rs easily, their tongues gone, like lads caught in a lie. I thin 
they felt his greatness then, and had any one of them possess¢ 
the nobility to come forward with an honest word, John Pat 
might yet have been saved to Scotland. As it was, they slun 
away in twos and threes, leaving at last only the good smit 
20 with us. He was not a man of talk, and the tears had washe 
the soot from his face in two white furrows. ' | 

“Yell hae a waught wi’ me afore ye gang, John,” he sax 
clumsily, “for th’ morns we’ve paddl’ ’t thegither ? th’ Nith., 

The ale was brought by the guidwife, who paused, as sh 

2g:put it down, to wipe her eyes with her apron. She gave Joh 
Paul one furtive glance and betook herself again to her knw 
ting with a sigh, speech having failed her likewise. The caf 
tain grasped up his mug. y 
“May God bless you, Jamie,” he said. rY 

30. Ye’ll be gaen noo to see the mither,” said Jamie, after 
long space. 7 

‘Ay, for the last time. An’, Jamie, ye'll see that nae hari 
cams to her when I’m far awa’?”’ : 

The smith promised, and also agreed to have John Pau 

35 chests sent by wagon, that very day, to Dumfries. And — 
left him at his forge, his honest breast torn with emoti 
looking after us. 










. 





CHAPTER XXI 


THE GARDENER’S COTTAGE 


So we walked out of the village, with many a head craned 
ter us and many an eye peeping from behind a shutter, and 
into the open highway. The day was heavenly bright, the 
nd humming around us and playing mad pranks with the 
iite cotton clouds, and | forgot awhile the pity within me to 5 
ynder at the orderly look of the country, the hedges with 
ver a stone out of place, and the bars always up. The 
ound was parcelled off in such bits as to make me smile 
yen | remembered our own wide tracts in the New World. 


sre waste was sin: with us part and parcel of a creed. I ro 


irvelled, too, at the primness and solidity of the houses 
mg the road, and remarked how their lines belonged rather 
the landscape than to themselves. But I was conscious ever 
a strange wish to expand, for I felt as tho’ I were in the land 
the Lilliputians, and the thought of a gallop of forty miles or 
over these honeycombed fields brought me to a laugh. But 
Was yet to see some estates of the gentry. 

Thad it on my tongue’s tip to ask the captain whither he 
is taking me, yet dared not intrude on the sorrow that still 
tipped him. Time and time we met people plodding along, 
me of them nodding uncertainly, others abruptly taking the 
¢ side of the pike, and every encounter drove the poison 
eper into his soul. But after we had travelled some way, 
) hill and down dale, he vouchsafed the intelligence that we 


HH 


dS 


5 


° 


tre making for Arbigland, Mr. Craik’s seat near Dumfries 25 


iich lies on the Nith twenty miles or so up the Solway from 
irkcudbright. On that estate stood the cottage where John 
wl was born, and where his mother and sisters still dwelt. 

“T'll juist be saying guidbye, Richard,” he said; “and leave 


i 199 





200i RICHARD CARVEL 7 
thent a bit siller I hae saved, an’ syne we'll be aff to Londo 


thegither, for Scotland’ s no bie a cauld kintra.” 
“You are going to London with me?” I cried. 
“Ay,”’ answered he; ‘‘this is hame nae mair for John Paul? 
5 ~1 made bold to ask how the John’s owners had treated him 

“T have naught to complain of, laddie,” he answered; “botl 
Mr. Beck and Mr. Currie bore the matter of the admiralt} 
court and the delay like the gentlemen they are. They wel 
know that I am hard driven when I resort to the lash. The) 

xo were both sore at losing me, and says Mr. Beck: ‘We'll no 
soon get another to keep the brigantine like a man-o’-war, a 
did you, John Paul.’ | thanked him, and told him I ha 
sworn never to take another merchantman out of the Solway 
And J will keep that oath.” 

15 He sighed, and added that he never hoped for better own 
In token of which he drew a certificate of service from hi 
pocket, signed by Messrs. Currie and Beck, proclaiming hir 
the best master and supercargo they had ever had in thei 
service. I perceived that talk lightened him, and led him of 

20 1 inquired how he had got the John. ¥ 

“T took passage on her from Kingston, laddie. On the ti 
both Captain ntoieah and the chief mate died of the fevei 
And it was I, the passenger, who sailed her into Kirkeut 
bright, tho’ I hind never been more than a chief mate befor 

2s That is scarce three years gone, when I was just turned on 
and twenty. And old Mr. Currie, who had known my fathei 
was so pleased that he gave me the ship. I had been | 
mate of the Two Friends, a slaver out of Kingston.” 

“And so you were in that trade!” I exclaimed. 

30 He seemed to hesitate. 

“Yes,” he replied, ‘“‘and sorry I am to say it. But a 
must live. It was no place for a gentleman, and [| left of & 
ownaccord. Before that, I wasona slaver out of Whitehaven. 

“You must know Whitehaven, then.” Pa 

35 1 said it only to keep the talk going, but I remembered th 
remark long after. | 

“1 do,” said he. ‘‘’Tis a fair sample of an English coat 








THE GARDENER’S COTTAGE 201 


own. And J have often thought, in the event of war with 
‘rance, how easy *twould be for Louis’s cruisers to harry the 
ylace, and an hundred like it, and raise such a terror as to 
reep the British navy at home.” 

I did not know at the time that this was the inspiration 5 
an admiral and of a genius. The subject waned. And as 
amiliar scenes jogged his memory, he launched into Scotch 
nd reminiscence. Every barn he knew, and cairn and croft 
nnd steeple recalled stories of his boyhood. 

We had long been in sight of Criffel, towering ahead of 10 
is, whose summit had beckoned for cycles to Helvellyn and 
faddleback looming up to the southward, marking the won- 
lerland of the English lakes. And at length, after some five 
iours of stiff walking, we saw the brown Nith below us going 
‘own to meet the Solway, and so came to the entrance of Mr. 15 
Jraik’s place. The old porter recognized Paul by a mere 
hake of the head and the words, “ Yere back, are ye?” and 

lowering of his bushy white eyebrows. We took a by-way 
o avoid the manor house, which stood on the rising ground 
wixt us and the mountain, I walking close to John Paul’s 20 
houlder and feeling for him at every step. Presently, at 

turn of the path, we were brought face to face with an | 
Iderly gentleman in black, and John Paul stopped. 

“Mr. Craik!’ he said, removing his hat. 

But the gentleman only whistled to his dogs and went on. 25 
“My God, even he!” exclaimed the captain, bitterly; “even 
e, who thought so highly of my father!” 

A hundred yards more and we came to the little cottage 
igh hid among the trees. John Paul paused a moment, his 
iand upon the latch of the gate, his eyes drinking in the 30 
amiliar picture. The light of day was dying behind Criffel, 
nd the tiny panes of the cottage windows pulsed with the 
osy flame on the hearth within, now flaring, and again deep- 
ning. He sighed. He walked with unsteady step to the 
loor and pushed it open. I followed, scarce knowing what 35 
did, halted at the threshold and drew back, for I had been 
tpon holy ground. 


: 


| 





202s . RICHARD CARVEL 7 
i, | 

John Paul was kneeling upon the flags by the ingleside 
his face buried on the open Bible in his mother’s lap. He 
snowy-white head was bent upon his, her tears running fast 
and her lips moving in silent prayer to Him who giveth am 

staketh away. Verily, here in this humble place dwelt a loy 
that defied the hard usage of a hard world! a 

After a space he came to the door and called, and took m 
by the hand, and I went in with him. Though his eyes ? 
wet, he baie himself like a cavalier. 

ro ‘Mother, this is Mr. Richard Carvel, heir to-Carvel Hal 
in Maryland,—a young gentleman homilies had th 
honour to rescue from a slaver.” 

I bowed low, such was my respect for Dame Paul, and Eq 
rose and curtseyed. She wore a widow’s cap and a blacl 

1s gown, and I saw in her deep-lined face a resemblance to he 
son. 

“Madam,” I said, the title coming naturally, “I owe Cap 
tain Paul a debt I can never repa 

“ Ay’ him but a laddie!” she cried. “I’m thankfu’, John 

20 1’m thankfu’ for his mither that ye saved him,” 

“‘T have no mother, Madam Paul,” said I, ‘‘and my fate 
was killed in the French war. But [haveia grandfather 7. 
loves me dearly as I love him.” 

" Some impulse brought her forward, and she took both m 
25 hands in her own. 

*Ye’ll forgive an auld woman, sir,’ ’ she said, with a diet 
that matched her son’s, “but ye’re sae young, an’ ye hae si 
a leuk 1 in yere bonny gray e’e that I ken ye'll aye be a tru 
friend o’ John’s. He’ s been a guid sin to me, an’ ye maunn 

3oreck what they say o’ him.” 


When now I think of the triumph John Paul has = | 







of the scofling world he has brought to his feet, I cannot 

recall that sorrowful evening in the gardener’s cottage, w 

a son was restored but to be torn away. The sisters cam 
35 from their day’s work,—both well-favoured lasses, with Jo 

eyes and hair,—and cookbd the simple meal of broth and por 

ridge, and the fowl they had kept so long against the capta 









THE GARDENER’S COTTAGE 203 


ome-coming. He carved with many a light word that cost 
im dear. Did Janet reca’ the simmer night they had supped 
ere, wi the bumclocks bizzin’ ower the candles? And was 
fancy, the cow, still the byre? And did the bees still give 
ve same bonnie hiney, and were the red apples still in thes 
ir orchard? Ay, Meg had thocht o’ him that autumn, and 
in to fetch them with her apron to her face, to come back, 
‘miling through her tears. So it went; and often a lump 
‘ould rise in my throat that I could not eat, famished as I 
as, and the mother and sisters scarce touched a morsel of xo 
1e feast. 

| The one never failing test of a son, my dears, lies in his 
reatment of his mother, and from that hour forth I had not 
doubt of John Paul. He was a man who had seen the 
‘orld and become, in more than one meaning of the word, 1s 
‘gentleman. Whatever foibles he may have had, he brought 

0 conscious airs and graces to this lowly place, but was again 
ae humble gardener’s boy. 

| But time pressed, as it ever does. The hour came for us 
> leave, John Paul firmly refusing to remain the night in 20 
house that belonged to Mr. Craik. Of the tenderness, nay, 

f the pity and cruelty of that parting, I have no power to 
trite. We knelt with bowed heads while the mother prayed 
or the son, expatriated, whom she never hoped to see again 
n this earth. She gave us bannocks of her own baking, and 25 
er last words were to implore me always to be a friend to 
ohn Paul. | 

| Then we went out into the night and walked all the way to 
Jumfries in silence. 

We lay that night at the sign of the “Twa Naigs,’”’! where 30 
he Pretender himself had rested in the Mars year.? Before I 
vent to bed I called for pen and paper, and by the light of a 
allow dip sat down to compose a letter to my grandfather, 





11 have not been able to discover why Mr. Carvel disguised the 
lame of this hostelry. It is probable that he forgot it. He kept no 
ournal.—D. C. C. 
 *The year 1715. 





204 RICHARD CARVEL ; 7 

Ms 

telling him that I was alive and well, and recounting as of 
of my adventures as I could. I said that I was going to Lon- 
don, where I would see Mr. Dix, and would take passage 
thence for America. I prayed that he had been able to bear 

3 up against the ordeal of my disappearance. I dwelt upon the 
obligations I was under to John Paul, relating the misfortunes 
of that worthy seaman (which he so little deserved!). And 
said that it was my purpose to bring him to Maryland with 
me, where I knew Mr. Carvel would reward him with one of 
xo his ships, explaining that he would accept no money. But 
when it came to accusing Grafton and the rector, I thought 
twice, and bit the end of the feather. The chances were so 
great that my grandfather would be in bed and under the 
guardianship of my uncle that I forbore, and resolved instead 
15 to write it to Captain Daniel at my first opportunity. e 
I arose early to discover a morning gray and drear, witha 
mist falling to chill the bones. News travels apace the world 
over, and that of John Paul’s home-coming and of his public 
renunciation of Scotland at the ‘‘Hurcheon” had reached 
zo Dumfries in good time, substantiated by the arrival of tke 
teamster with the chests the night before. I descended into 
the courtyard in time to catch the captain in his watchet-blue 
frock haggling with the landlord for a chaise, the two of them 
surrounded by a muttering crowd anxious for a glimpse of Mr. 
2s Craik’s gardener’s son, for-he had become a nine-day sensation 
to the country round about. But John Paul minded them not 
so much as a swarm of flies, and the teamster’s account of the 
happenings at Kirkcudbright had given them so wholesomea 
fear of his speech and presence as to cause them to misdoub 
30 their own wit, which is saying a deal of Scotchmen. Bu 
when the bargain had been struck and John Paul gone wi 
the ’ostler to see to his chests, mine host thought it a pity ne 
to have a fall out of me. & 
“So ye be the Buckskin laird,” he said, with a wink at: 

3s leering group of farmers; ‘‘ye hae braw gentles in America. 
e was a man of sixty or thereabout, with a shrewd but m 
unkindly face that had something familiar in it. , 








THE GARDENER’S COTTAGE 205 


Vou have discernment indeed to recognize a gentleman in 
‘cotch clothes,”’ I replied, turning the laugh on him. 

“Dinna raise ae Buckskin, Mr. Rawlinson,” said a man in 
orduroy. 
| “Rawlinson!” I exclaimed at random, “there is one of your s 
tame in the colonies who knows his station better.” 
| “Trowkt!’’ cried mine host, ‘‘ye ken Ivie o’ Maryland,— 
ivie my brither?”’ 
| “He is my grandfather’s miller at Carvel Hall,’ I said. 
| “Syne ye maun be nane ither than Mr. Richard Carvel. 10 
‘ere servan’, Mr. Carvel,” and he made mea low bow, to the 
‘reat dropping of jaws round about, and led me into the inn. 
Vith trembling hands he took a packet from his cabinet and 
howed me the letters, twenty-three in all, which Ivie had 
\yritten home since he had gone out as the King’s passenger rs 
n 45. The sight of them brought tears to my eyes and 
‘arried me out of the Scotch mist back to dear old Maryland. 
‘had no trouble in convincing mine host that I was the lad 
ulogized in the scrawls, and he put hand on the very sheet 
vyhich announced my birth, nineteen years since,—the fourth 20 
seneration of Carvels Ivie had known. 
| So it came that the captain and I got the best chaise and 
pair in place of the worst, and sat down to a breakfast such as 
lyas prepared only for my Lord Selkirk when he passed that 
yay, while I told the landlord of his brother; and as I talked 25 
“remembered the day I had caught the arm of the mill and 
sone the round, to find that Ivie had written of that, too! 
_ After that our landlord would not hear of a reckoning. | 
night stay a month, a year, at the “Twa Naigs” if I wished. 
\s for John Paul, who seemed my friend, he would say noth- 30 
ng, only to advise me privately that the man was queer com- 
yany, shaking his head when I defended him. He came to me 
lyith ten guineas, which he pressed me to take for Ivie’s sake, 
ind repay when occasion offered. I thanked him, but was of 
ho mind to accept money from one who thought ill of my 3s 
denefactor. 
| The refusal of these recalled the chaise, and I took the 


ie 








ae RICHARD CARVEL 7 


trouble to expostulate with the captain on that score, pointin 
out as delicately as I might that, as he had brought met 
Scotland, I held it within my right to incur the expense of th 
trip to London, and that I intended to reimburse him when 
ssaw Mr. Dix. For I knew that his wallet was not over ful 
since he had left the half of his savings with his mothe 
Much to my secret delight, he agreed to this as within 1 
compass of a gentleman’s acceptance. Had he not, I had t 
full intention of leaving him to post it alone, and of vficnn 
ro myself to the master of the first schooner, if 
Despite the rain, and the painful scenes gone through bu 
yesterday, and the sour-looking ring of men and woul 
th 
x 


“tp 


gathered to see the start, I was in » high : spirits as we went 
ning down the Carlisle road, with my heart leaping to t 
1s crack of the postilion’s whip. | 
I was going to London and to Dorothy! 





i CHAPTER XXII 


| ON THE ROAD 


Many were the ludicrous incidents we encountered on our 
journey to London. As long as I live, I shall never forget 
John Paul’s alighting upon the bridge of the Sark to rid him- 
elf of a mighty farewell address to Scotland he had been 
omposing upon the road. And this he delivered with such 5 
ppelling voice and gesture as to frighten to a standstill a 
thaise on the English side of the stream, containing a young 
lrentleman in a scarlet coat and a laced hat, and a young lady 
vho sobbed as we passed them. They were, no doubt, 
‘unning to Gretna Green to be married. 10 
Captain Paul, as I have said, was a man of moods, and 
jtrangely affected by ridicule. And this we had in plenty 
ipon the road. Landlords, grooms, and ’ostlers, and even our 
dwn post-boys, laughed and jested coarsely at his sky-blue 
rock, and their aes angered him beyond all reason, while rs 
they afforded me so great an amusement that more than once 

|| was on the edge of a serious falling-out with him as a conse- 
\juence of my merriment. Usually, when we alighted from our 
vehicle, the expression of mine host would sour, and his sir 
would shift to a master; while his servants would go trooping 20 
|Magain, with many a coarse fling that they would get no vails 
‘rom such as we. And once we were invited into the kitchen. 
He would be sour for half a day at a spell after a piece of 
insolence out of the common, and then deliver me a solemn 
jecture upon the advantage of birth ina manor. Then his nat- 2s 
aral buoyancy would lift him again, and he would be in child- 
‘sh ecstasies at the prospect of getting to London, and seeing 
che great world; and | began to think that he secretly cher- 
shed the hope of meeting some of its votaries. For I had told 


207 












yk RICHARD CARVEL \j 


him casually as possible, that I had friends in Arlington 
Street, where I remembered the Manners were established. 

“ Arlington Street!” he repeated, rolling the words over hic 
tongue; ‘it has a fine sound, laddie, a fine sound. That street 

5s must be the very acme of fashion.” 

I laughed, and replied that I did not know. And at the 
ordinary of the next inn we came to, he took occasion to men. 
tion to me, in a louder voice than was necessary, that I would 
do well to call in Arlington Street as we went into town. Sc 

ro far as [ could see, the remark did not compel any increase 6} 
respect from our fellow-diners. 

Upon more than one point I was worried. Often and often 
I reflected that some hitch might occur to prevent my getting 
money promptly from Mr. Dix. Days would perchance elapse 

ts before I could find the man in such a great city as London; he 
might be out of town at this season, Easter being less thang 
se‘nnight away. For I had heard my grandfather say that the 
elder Mr. Dix had a house i in some merchant’s suburb, ane 
loved to play at being a squire before he died. Again (my 

20 heart stood at the thought), the Manners might be gone back 
to America. I cursed the stubborn pride which had led the 
captain to hire a post-chaise, when the wagon had served ui 
so much better, and besides relieved him of the fusillade 6 
ridicule he got travelling as a gentleman. But such reflec 

25 tions always ended in my upbraiding myself for blaming hin 
whose generosity had rescued me from perhaps a Lela 
misery. 

But, on the whole, we rolled southward happily, betweet 
high walls and hedges, past trim gardens and fields ane 

30 meadows, and [| fat ellad at the resular, park-like look o 
the country, as though stamped from one design continually 
recurring, like our butter at Carvel Hall. The roads wert 
sometimes good, and sometimes as execrable as a colonia 
byway in winter, with mud up to the axles. And yet, m 

3s heart went out to this country, the home of my ancestors 
Spring was at hand; the ploughboys whistled between the fur 
rows, the larks circled overhead, and the lilacs were cautiousl} 










ON THE ROAD 209 


pushing forth their noses. The air was heavy with the per- 
fume of living things. 

The welcome we got at our various stopping-places was often 
scanty indeed, and more than once we were told to go farther 
‘down the street, that the inn was full. And I may as wells 
confess that my mind was troubled about John Paul. De- 
spite all | could say, he would go to the best hotels in the 
larger towns, declaring that there we should meet the people 
of fashion. Nor was his eagerness damped when he discovered 
that such people never came to the ordinary, but were served 10 
in their own rooms by their own servants. 
| “T shall know them yet,” he would vow, as we started off of 
1 morning, after having seen no more of my Lord than his 
iveries below stairs. “Am I not a gentleman in all but birth, 
Richard? And that is a difficulty many before me have over- 15 
rome. I have the classics, and the history, and the poets. 
And the French language, though I have never made the 
rrand tour. I flatter myself that my tone might be worse. By 
che help of your friends, [ shall have a title or two for acquaint- 
inces before I leave London; and when my money is gone, 20 
there is a shipowner I know of who will give me employment, 

f I have not obtained preferment.” 

The desire to meet persons of birth was near to a mania 
vith him. And I had not the courage to dampen his hopes. 
3ut, inexperienced as I was, I knew ‘the kind better than he, 25 
ind understood that it was easier for a camel to enter the eye 
#f a needle, than for John Paul to cross the thresholds of the 
‘eat houses of London. The way of adventurers is hard, and 
1e could scarce lay claim then to a better name. 

“We shall go to Maryland together, Captain Paul,” I said, 30 
and waste no time upon London save to see Vauxhall, and 
he opera, and St. James’s and the Queen’s House and the 
Cower, and Parliament, and perchance his Majesty himself,” 

.added, attempting merriment, for the notion of seeing Dolly 
nly to leave her gave me a pang. And the captain knew 35 
i10thing of Dolly. 
. | “So, Bichae: you fear I shall disgrace you,” he said 


i 





- 


210 RICHARD CARVEL a 
reproachfully. ‘Know, sir, that I have pride enough and t 
spare. That I can make friends without going to Arlingtor 
Street.” 

I was ready to cry with vexation at this childish speech. 

s ‘And a time will come when they shall know me,” he wen 
on. ‘If they insult me now they shall pay dearly for it.” 

“My dear captain,” I cried; ‘nobody will insult you, an 
least of all my friends, the Manners.” I had my misgiving 
about little Mr. Marmaduke. “But we are, neither of us 

ro equipped for a London season. I am but an unknown prow 
cial, and you—” I paused for words. 

For a sudden realization had come upon me that our posi 
tions were now reversed. It seemed strange that I should bi 
interpreting the world to this man of power. 

ry ‘And I?” he repeated bitterly. : 

“You have first to become an admiral,” I replied, with in 
spiration; ‘Drake was once a common seaman.” 

He did not answer. But that evening as we came inti 
Windsor, I perceived that he had not abandoned his inten 

20 tions. The long light flashed on the peaceful Thames, and th 
great, grim castle was gilded all over its western side. 

The captain leaned out of the window. 

“‘Postilion,” he called, “‘ which inn here is most favoured by 
gentlemen?” 

as * Lhe _ Castle,’ ” said the boy, turning in his saddle to gr 
at me. “But if I might be so bold as to advise your honow! 
the ‘Swan’ is a comfortable house, and well attended.”’ 4 

“Know your place, sirrah,” shouted the captain, ange 
and drive us to the ‘Castle.’ ” 

30 ‘Lhe boy snapped his whip disdainfully, and presently pull 
us up at the inn, our chaise covered with the mud of three pal 
ticular showers we had run through that day. And, as usua 
the landlord, thinking he was about to receive quality, cam 
scraping to the chaise door, only to turn with a gesture of dis 

3s gust when he perceived John Paul’s sea-boxes tied on behin 
and the costume of that hero, as well as my own. 

The captain demanded a room. But mine host had turne 


ce 






| ON THE ROAD 211 


lis back, when suddenly a thought must have struck him, for 
ie wheeled again. 

“Stay,” he cried, glancing suspiciously at the sky-blue 
rock; “if you are Mr. Dyson’s courier, I have reserved a 
juite.”” 

This same John Paul, who was like iron with mob and mu- 
iny, was pitiably helpless before such a prop of the aristoc- 
lacy. He flew into a rage, and rated the landlord in Scotch 
ind English, and I was fain to put my tongue in my cheek 
nd turn my back that my laughter might not anger him the ro 
nore. 
| And so I came face to face with another smile, behind a 
(pying-glass,—a smile so cynical and unpleasant withal that 
ny own was smothered. A tall and thin gentleman, who had 
tome out of the inn without a hat, was surveying the dispute rs 
vith a keen delight. He was past the middle age. His 
slothes bore that mark which distinguishes his world from the 
»ther, but his features were so striking as to hold my attention 
mmwittingly. 
| After a while he withdrew his glass, cast one look at me 20 
which might have meant anything, and spoke up. 
| “Pray, my good Goble, why all this fol-de-rol about admit- 
fing a gentleman to your house?” 
| LT scarce know which was the more astonished, the landlord, 
John Paul, or I. Goble bowed at the speaker. 25 

“A gentleman, your honour!” he gasped. “Your honour is 
joking again. Surely this trumpery Scotchman in Jews’ 
finery is no gentleman, nor the ‘longshore lout he has got 
with him. They may go to the ‘Swan.’”’ 
| a finery!’ shouted the captain, with his fingers on his 30 
sword. 
| But the stranger held up a hand deprecatingly. 

“Pon my oath, Goble, I gave you credit for more penetra- 
tion,” he drawled; “you may be right about the Scotchman, 
but your ’longshore lout has had both birth and breeding, or I 35 
know nothing.” 

_” Paul, who was in the act of bowing to the speaker, 











212 RICHARD CARVEL ' 


remained petrified with his hand upon his heart, entirely dis. 
comfited. The landlord forsook him instantly for me, then 
stole a glance at his guest to test his seriousness, and looked 
at my face to see how greatly it were at variance with my 

5 clothes. The temptation to lay hands on the cringing lice 
toadeater grew too strong for me, and I picked him up by the 
scruff of the collar,—he - was all skin and bones,—and spun 
him round like a corpse upon a gibbet, while he cried merey in 
a voice to wake the dead. ‘The slim gentleman under the sign 

ro laughed until he held his sides, with a heartiness that’ Jari? 
upon me. It did not seem to fit him. 

“By Hercules and Vulcan,” he cried, when at last I had set 
the landlord down, “‘what an arm dnd. back the lad has! He 
must have the best in the house, Goble, and sup with me.” ~ 

15 Goble pulled himself together. } 

“And he is your honour’s friend,” he began, with a scowl, 

“Ay, he is my friend, I tell you,” retorted the important 
personage, impatiently. | 

The innkeeper, sulky, half-satisfied, yet fearing to offend, 

20 welcomed us with what grace he could muster, and we were 
shown to “‘ The Fox and the Grapes,” a large room in the reat 
of the house. 

John Paul had not spoken since the Lom gentleman had 
drawn the distinction between us, and I knew that the affront 

25 was rankling in his breast. He cast himself into a chair with 
such an air of dejection as made me pity him from my heart. 
But I had no consolation to offer. His first words, far from 
being the torrent of protest I looked for, almost startled me 
into laughter. 

30 “He can be nothing less than a duke,” said the captain, 
“Ah, Richard, see what it is to be a gentleman!” ; 

“Fiddlesticks! I had rather own your powers than the best 
title in England,” I retorted sharply. 

He shook his head sorrowfully, which made me wonder the 

3s more that a man of his ability should be unhappy without 
this one bauble attainment. e, 

“I shall begin to believe the philosophers have the right of 


99 





7 ON THE ROAD 213 


2 he remarked presently. ‘Have you ever read anything 
| Monsieur Rousseau’s, Richard?” 

The words were scarce out of his mouth when we heard a 
oud rap on the door, which | opened to discover a Swiss 
‘ellow in a private livery, come to say that his master begged 5 
jhe young gentleman would sup with him. The man stood 
immovable while he delivered this message, and put an impu- 
lent emphasis upon the gentleman. 
| “Say to your master, whoever he may be,” | replied, in 
jome heat at the man’s sneer, “that I am travelling with Cap- ro 
‘ain Paul. That any invitation to me must include him.” 
| The lackey stood astounded at my answer, as though he had 
jot heard aright. Then he retired with less assurance than 
ae had come, and John Paul sprang to his feet and laid his 
aands upon my shoulders, as was his wont when affected. Hers 
teproached himself for having misjudged me, and added a 
jeal more that I have forgotten. 
| “And to think,” he cried, ‘that you have forgone supping 
with a nobleman on my account!” 
| “Pish, captain, ’tis no great denial. His Lordship—if Lord- 20 
ship he is—is stranded in an inn, overcome with ennui, and 


must be amused. That is all.” 
| Nevertheless I think the good captain was distinctly dis- 
appointed, not alone because I gave up what in his opinion was 

a great advantage, but likewise because I could have regaled 25 
him on my return with an account of the meal. For it must 
be borne in mind, my dears, that those days are not these, nor 
that country this one. And in judging Captain Paul it must 
be remembered that rank inspired a vast respect when King 
George came to the throne. It can never be said of John 30 
| a that he lacked either independence or spirit. But a 
nobleman was a nobleman then. 

| So when presently the gentleman himself appeared smiling 
at our door, which his servant had left open, we both of us 
‘rose up in astonishment and bowed very respectfully, and my 35 
face burned at the thought of the message I had sent him. 
For, after all, the captain was but twenty-three and I nineteen, 


ri 


214 RICHARD CARVEL 




















and the distinguished unknown at least fifty. He took a pine 
of snuff and brushed his waistcoat before he spoke. } 
“Egad,” said he, with good nature, looking up at 
“Mohammed was a philosopher, and so am I, and come to 
smountain. *Tis worth crossing an inn in these times to s 
young man whose strength has not been wasted upon fopper 
May I ask your name, sir?” 
“ Richard Carvel,” I answered, much put aback. : 
“Ah, Carvel;” he repeated; ‘ ‘I know three or four of that 
ro name. Perhaps you are Robert Carvel’s son, of Yorkshire. 
But what the devil do you do in such clothes? I was resolved 
to have you though I am forced to take a dozen watches iia 
mountebanks in the bargain.” , 
“Sir, I warn you not to insult my friends? I cried, ai ] 
15 temper again. ie 
“There, there, not so loud, I beg you,” said he, with a 
gesture. “Hot as pounded pepper,—but all things are the 
better for a touch of it. I had no intention of insulting the 
worthy man, I give my word. I must have my joke, sir. Ne 
2oharm meant.” And he nodded at John Paul, who looked asi 
he would sink through the floor. “Robert Carvel is as tes 
as the devil with the gout, and you are not unlike him in 
feature.” ; j 
“He is no relation of mine,” I replied, undecided whether 
25 to laugh or be angry. And then I added, for I was very 
young, ““I am an American, and heir to Carvel Hall in Mary 


an Lord, lord, I might have known,” exclaimed he. ‘On 

I had the honour of dining with your Dr. Franklin, from 
30 Pennsylvania. He dresses for all the world like you, onl 
worse, and wears a hat I would not be caught under at Ba 
nigge Wells, were I so imprudent as to go there.” 
eat Franklin has weightier matters than hats to occup 
him, sir,” I retorted. For I was determined to hold my ow 
3s He made a French gesture, a shrug of his thin shoulder 
which caused me to suspect he was not always so good-natured 
“Dr. Franklin would better have stuck to his newspape 





ON THE ROAD 215 


my young friend,” said he. “But I like your appearance too 
well to quarrel with you, and we'll have no politics before 
eating. Come, gentlemen, come! Let us see what Goble has 
left after his shaking.” 
He struck off with something of a painful gait, which he 
explained was from the gout. And presently we arrived at 
his parlour, where supper was set out for us. I had not tasted 
its equal since I left Maryland. We sat down to a capon 
stuffed with eggs, and dainty sausages, and hot rolls, such as 
we had at home; and a wine which had cobwebbed and mel- 
lowed under the Castle Inn. for better than twenty years. The 
personage did not drink wine. He sent his servant to quarrel 
“with Goble because he had not been given iced water. While 
he was tapping on the table I took occasion to observe him. 
His was a physiognomy to strike the stranger, not by reason 
of its nobility, but because of its oddity. He had a prodigious 
length of face, the nose long in proportion, but not prominent. 
The eyes were dark, very bright, and wide apart, with little 
eyebrows dabbed over them at a slanting angle. The thin- 
‘lipped mouth rather pursed up, which made his smile the con- 
tradiction it was. In short, my dears, while I do not lay claim 
to the reading of character, it required no great astuteness to 
perceive the scholar, the man of the world, and the ascetic— 





and all affected. His conversation bore out the summary. It 


“astonished us. It encircled the earth, embraced history and 


‘Tetters since the world began. And added to all this, he 
had a thousand anecdotes on his tongue’s tip. His words he 
chose with too great a nicety; his sentences were of a foreign 
_ formation, twisted around; and his stories were illustrated 


with French gesticulations. He threw in quotations galore, in 









Latin, and French, and English, until the captain began cast- 


ing me odd, uncomfortable looks, as though he wished himself 


well out of the entertainment. Indeed, poor John Paul’s per- 
turbation amused me more than the gentleman’s anecdotes. 
‘To be ill at ease is discouraging to anyone, but it was 
ear fatal with the captain. This arch-aristocrat dazzled 


. 


im. When he attempted to follow in the same vein he would 


5 


Lal 


° 


Lal 


5 


to 


5 


30 


35 


orb RICHARD CARVEL Li 


get lost. And his really considerable learning counted for 
nothing. He reached the height of his mortification when the 
slim gentleman dropped his eyelids and began to yawn. | 
was wickedly delighted. He could not have been better met. 

s Another such encounter, and I would warrant the captain's — 
illusions concerning the gentry to go up in smoke. Then he 
might come to some notion of his own true powers. As for 
me, I enjoyed the supper which our host had insisted upon our 
partaking, drank his wine, and paid him very little attention, 

1o “May I make so bold as to ask, sir, whether you are a patron 
of literature!” said the captain, at length. 

““A very poor patron, my dear man,” was the answer. 
“Merely a humble worshipper at the shrine. And I might 
say that I partake of its benefits as much asa gentleman may. 

1s And yet,” he added, with a laugh and a cough, “those silly” 
newspapers and magazines insist on calling me a literary 
man. , 

“And now that you have indulged 1 in a question, and the 
claret is coming on,” said he, “‘ perhaps you will tell me some- 

20 thing of yourself, Mr. Carvel, and of your friend, Captain 
Paul. And how you come to be so far from home.” And he~ 
settled himself comfortably to listen, as a man who has bought 
his right to an opera box. 

Here was my chance. And I resolved that if I did not 

25 further enlighten John Paul, it would be no fault of mine. _ 

LOIryh replied, in as dry a monotone as I could assume, “i 
was kidnapped by the connivance of some unscrupulous per= 
sons in my colony, who had designs upon my grandfather's — 
fortune. I was taken abroad in a slaver and carried down to 

30 the Caribbean seas, when I soon discovered that the captain 
and his crew were nothing less than pirates. For one day all 
hands got into a beastly state of drunkenness, and the captain — 
raised the skull and cross-bones, which he had handy in his 
chest. I was forced to climb the main rigging in order to 

3s escape being hacked to pieces.” 

He sat bolt upright, those little eyebrows of his gone up 
full half an inch, and he raised his thin hands with an air of 


9? 





ON THE ROAD 217 


: 


incredulity. John Paul was no less astonished at my little 
‘ruse. 

“Holy Saint Clement!’ exclaimed our host; “pirates! 
This begins to have a flavour indeed. And yet you do not 
seem to be a lad with an imagination. Egad, Mr. Carvel, I had 5 
put you down for one who might say, with Alceste: ‘Lire 
franc et sincere est mon plus srand talent.’ But pray go on, 
‘sir. You have but to call for pen and ink to rival Mr. Fielding.” 
| With that I pushed back my chair, got up from the table, 
and made him a bow. And the captain, at last seeing my 10 
drift, did the same. 

“Tam not used at home to have my word doubted, sir,” I 
said. “Sir, your humble servant. I wish you a very good 
evening.” He rose precipitately, crying out from his gout, 
and laid a hand upon my arm. 15 

“Pray, Mr. Carvel, pray, sir, be seated,” he said, in some 
agitation. “Remember that the story is unusual, and that I 
have never clapped eyes on you until to-night. Are all young 
gentlemen from Maryland so fiery? But I should have 
known from your face that you are incapable of deceit. Pray 20 
be seated, captain.” 

I was persuaded to go on, not a little delighted that I had 
scored my point, and broken down his mask of affectation and 
careless cynicism. I told my story, leaving out the family 
history involved, and he listened with every. mark of atten- 25 
Bon and interest. Indeed, to my surprise, he began to show 
some enthusiasm, of phich sensation I had not believed him 
capable. 

“What a find! what a find!’ he continued to exclaim, when 
Thad finished. ‘And true. You say it is true, Mr. Carvel?” 30 

“Sir!” I replied, “I thought we had thrashed that out.” 

ey €S, yes, to. be sure. i beg pardon,” said he. And then 
to his servant: ‘‘Colomb, is my writing-tablet unpacked?” 

I was more mystified than ever as to his identity. Was he 
going to put the story in a magazine? 35 
After that he seemed plainly anxious to be rid of us. | 

bade him good night, and he grasped my hand warmly 


: 





218 RICHARD CARVEL 







enough. Then he turned to the captain in his most condé 
scending manner. But a great change had come over Joh ; 
* Paul. He was ever quick to see and to learn, and I rejoiced 
to remark that he did not bow over the hand, as he might 
s have done two hours since. He was again Captain Paul, the” 
man, who fought his way on his own merits. He held himself 
as tho’ he was once more pacing the deck of the John. x 
The slim gentleman poured the width of a finger of clase 
in his glass, soused it with water, and held 1 it up. 2 

xo “‘Here’s to your future, my good captain,” he said, “and t 
| Mr. Carvel’s safe arrival home again. When you get to town, 
| Mr. Carvel, don’t fail to go to Davenport, who makes clothes - 
for most of us at Almack’ s, and let him remodel you. I wish 
to God he might get hold of your doctor. And put up at the 
15 Star and Garter i in Pall Mall. I take it that you have friends” 
in London.” 3 
I replied that [ had. But he did not push the inquiry. - 
| “You should write out this history for your grandchildren, ~ 
Mr. Carvel,” he added, as he bade his Swiss light us to our 
2oroom. “A strange yarn indeed, captain.’ © 
“And therefore,” said the captain, coolly, “‘as a stranger 
: give it welcome. he 












““¢There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, 
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ ” 


25 Had a meteor struck at the gentleman’s feet, he could no 
have been more taken aback. | 
“What! What’s this?” he cried. “You quote Hamlet! 
And who the devil are you, sir, that you know my name?” 
“Your name, sir!’ exclaims the captain in astonishment. — 
30 ©‘ Well, well,” he said, stepping back and eyeing us closely, 
“’tis no matter. Good night, gentlemen, good night.” 
And we went to bed with many a laugh over the incident. 
“‘His name must be Horatio. We'll discover it in the 
morning,” said John Paul. 


eel ee 


| CHAPTER XXIII 


LONDON TOWN 
' . . 
But he had not risen when we set out, nor would the 1ll- 


natured landlord reveal his name. It mattered little to me, 
‘since I desired to forget him as quickly as possible. For here 
‘was one of my own people of quality, a gentleman who pro- 
fessed to believe what I told him, and yet would do no more 5 
for me than recommend me an inn and a tailor; while a poor 
sea-captain, driven from his employment and his home, with 
no better reason to put faith in my story, was sharing with me 
his last penny. Goble, in truth, had made us pay dearly for 
our fun with him, and the hum of the vast unknown fell upon 10 
‘our ears with the question of lodging still unsettled. The 
‘captain was for going to the Star and Garter, the inn the gen- 
tleman had mentioned. I was in favour of seeking a more 
modest and less fashionable hostelry. 

“Remember that you must keep up your condition, Rich- 1s 
ard,” said John Paul. 

“And if all English gentlemen are like our late friend,” I 
said, “I would rather stay in a city coffee house. Remember 
that you have only two guineas left after paying for the 
chaise, and that Mr. Dix may be out of town.’ 20 

“And your friends in Arlington Street?” said he. 

“May be back in Maryland,” said 1; and added inwardly, 
“God forbid!” 

“We shall have twice the chance at the Star and Garter. 
They will want a show of gold at a humbler place, and at the 2; » 
Star we may carry matters with a high hand. Pick out the 
biggest frigate,” he cried, for the tenth time, at least, “‘or the 
most beautiful lady, and it will Surprise you, my lad, to find 
out how many times you will win. 


tbe 


‘ . 219 





7 5 9 
220 RICHARD CARVEL . 
\ 

I know of no feeling of awe to equal that of a stranger 
approaching for the first time a huge city. The thought of a 
human multitude is ever appalling as that of infinity itself,— 
a human multitude with its infinity of despairs and joys, dis- 

s graces and honours, each small unit with all the world in its 
own brain, and all the world out of it! Each intent upon his 
own business or pleasure, and striving the while by hook or 
crook to keep the ground from slipping beneath his feet. For, 
if he falls, God help him! 

ro Yes, here was London, great and pitiless, and the fear of it 
was upon our souls as we rode into it that day. 

Holland House with its shaded gardens, Kensington Palace 
with the broad green acres of parks in front of it stitched by 
the silver Serpentine, and Buckingham House, which lay to 

is the south over the hill,—all were one to us in wonder as they 
loomed through the glittering mist that softened all. We met 
with a stream of countless wagons that spoke of a trade beyond 
knowledge, sprinkled with the equipages of the gentry float- 
ing upon it; coach and chaise, cabriolet and chariot, gor 
20 seously bedecked with heraldry and wreaths; their numbers 
astonished me, for to my mind the best of them were no bette 
than we could boast in Annapolis. One matter, which brings 
a laugh as I recall it, was the oddity to me of seeing. white 
coachmen and footmen. 
2s Weclattered down St. James’s Street, of which I had often 
heard my grandfather speak, and at length we drew up before 
the Star and Garter in Pall Mall, over against the palace. The 
servants came hurrying out, headed by a chamberlain clad in 
magnificent livery, a functionary we had not before encoun- 
3otered. John Paul alighted to face this personage, who, the 
moment he perceived us, shifted his welcoming look to one of 
such withering scorn as would have daunted a more timid man 
than the captain. Without the formality of a sir he de= 
manded our business, which started the inn people and our 
3s0wn boy to snickering, and made the passers-by pause and 
stare. Dandies who were taking the air stopped to ogle us 
with their spying-glasses and to offer quips, and behind them) 





| 
f 


LONDON TOWN 321 


gathered the flunkies and chairmen awaiting their masters at 
the clubs and cotfee houses near by. What was my astonish- 
ment, therefore, to see a change in the captain’s demeanour. 
Truly for quick learning and the application of it I have never 
known his equal. His air became the one of careless eases 
habitual to the little gentleman we had met at Windsor, and 
he drew from his pocket one of his guineas, which he tossed 
in the man’s palm. 

| “Here, my man,” said he, snapping his fingers; “‘an apart- 
ment at once, or you shall pay for this nonsense, I promise ro 
you.” And walked in with his chin in the air, so grandly as 
to dissolve ridicule into speculation. 

For an instant the chamberlain wavered, and I trembled, 
for I dreaded a disgrace in Pall Mall, where the Manners 
might hear of it. Then fear, or hope of gain, or something rs 
else got the better of him, for he led us to a snug, well- 
furnished suite of a parlour and bedroom on the first floor, 
and stood bowing in the doorway for his honour’s further 
commands. They were of a sort to bring the sweat to my 
forehead. 20 

“Have a fellow run to bid Davenport, the tailor, come 
hither as fast as his legs will carry him. And you may make it 
known that this young gentleman desires a servant, a good 
man, mind you, with references, who knows a gentleman’s 
wants. He will be well paid.” 25 

That name of Davenport was a charm,—the mention of a 
servant was its finishing touch. The chamberlain bent almost 
double, and retired, closing the door softly behind him. And 
so great had been my surprise over these last acquirements 
of the captain that until now I had had no breath to expos- 30 
tulate. 

“1 must have my fling, Richard,” he answered, laughing; 
“I shall not be a gentleman long. ‘I must know how it feels 
to take your ease, and stroke your velvet, and order lackeys 
about. And when my money ts gone I shall be content to go 35 
to sea again, and think about it o’ stormy nights.” 

_ This feeling was so far beyond my intelligence that I made 








x 
L: 


222 RICHARD CARVEL 


no comment. And I could not for the life of me chide him, 
but prayed that all would come right in the end. i 
In less than an hour Davenport himself arrived, bristling 
with importance, followed by his man carrying such a variety 
5 of silks and satins, flowered and plain, and broadcloths and 
velvets, to fill the furniture. And close behind the tailor came 
a tall haberdasher from Bond Street, who had got wind of a 
customer, with a bewildering lot of ruffles and handkerchiefs 
and neckerchiefs, and bows of lawn and lace which (so he in= 
roformed us) gentlemen now wore in the place of solitaire: 
Then came a hosier and a bootmaker and a hatter; nay,” 
was forgetting a jeweller from Temple Bar. And so imposing 
a front did the captain wear as he picked this and recom 
mended the other that he got credit for me for all he chos 
rs and might have had more besides. For himself he ordered 
merely a modest street suit of purple, the sword to be thru: 
through the pocket, Davenport promising it with mine for t 
next afrermbar For so much discredit had been cast upon 
his taste on the road to London that he was resolved to re= 
20 main indoors until he could appear with decency. He learned 
quickly, as I have said. 
By the time we had done with these matters, which I wished 
to perdition, some score of applicants was in waiting for mé. 
And out of them I hired one who had been valet to the you 
2s Lord Rereby, and whose recommendation was excellent. Hi 
name was-Banks, his face open and ingenuous, his stature a 
little above the ordinary, and his manner respectful. I had 
Davenport measure him at once for a suit of the Carvel livery, 
and bade him report on the morrow. % 
30 All this while, my dears, I was aching to be off to Arlington 
| Street, but a foolish pride held me back. I had heard § 
: much of the fashion in which the Manners moved that | 
feared to bring ridicule upon them in poor MacMuir’s clothes 
But presently the desire to see Dolly took such hold upon 
35 that I set out before dinner, fought my way past the chairmen 
and chaisemen at the door, and asked my way of the first 
civil person I encountered. *ITwas only a little rise up t 










x 





LONDON TOWN 223 


steps of St. James’s Street, Arlington Street being but a small 
pocket of Piccadilly, but it seemed a dull English mile; and 
my heart thumped when [I reached the cornet, and the houses 
danced before my eyes. I steadied myself by a post and 
looked again. At last, after a thousand leagues of wandering, 5 
I was near her! But how to choose between fifty severe and 
imposing mansions? I walked on toward that endless race 
of affairs and fashion, Piccadilly, scanning every door, nay, 
every window, in the hope that I might behold my lady’s face 
framed therein. Here a chair was set down, there a chariot ro 
or a coach pulled up, and a clocked flunky bowing a lady in. 
But no Dorothy. Finally, when I had near made the round 
of each side, | summoned courage and asked a butcher’s lad, 
whistling as he passed me, whether he could point out the 
residence of Mr. Manners. 15 
“Ay,” he replied, looking me over out of the corner of his 
eye, “that I can. But ye'll not get a glimpse o’ the beauty 
this day, for she’s but just off to Kensington with a coachful 
© quality.” 
| And he:led me, all in a tremble over his answer, to a large 20 
stone dwelling with arched windows, and pillared portico with 
lanthorns and link extinguishers, an area and railing beside it. 
The flavour of generations of aristocracy hung about the place, 
and the big knocker on the carved door seemed to regard 
with such a forbidding frown my shabby clothes that I took 25 
but the one glance (enough to fix it forever in my mem- 
ory); and hurried on. Alas, what hope I had of Dorothy 
now! 

“What cheer, Richard!’ cried the captain when I returned; 
“have you seen your friends?”’ 30 
I told him that I had feared to disgrace them, and so re- 

frained from knocking—a decision which he commended as the 
very essence of wisdom. Though a desire to meet and talk 
with quality pushed him hard, he would not go a step to the 
tae and gave orders to be served in our room, thus fos- g5 
tering the mystery which had enveloped us since our arrival. 
) inner at the Star and Garter being at the fashionable hour 








224 ; RICHARD CARVEL g 


of half after four, I was forced to give over for that day i 
task of finding Mr. Dix. 

hat evening—shall I confess it?—I spent between the 

Green Park and Arlington Street, hoping for a glimpse of 
s Miss Dolly returning from Kensington. 

The next morning I proclaimed my intention of going to 
Mr. Dix. 

“Send for him,” said the captain. ‘‘Gentlemen never seal 
their men of affairs.” 

10 “No,” I cried; “I can contain myself in this place no 
longer. I must be moving.” 

“As you will, Richard,” he replied, and giving me a queef, 
puzzled look he settled himself between the. Morning Post and 
the Chronicle. 

1s As I passed the servants in the lower hall, I could not but 
remark an altered treatment. My friend the chamberlain, 
more pompous than ever, stood erect in the door with a stony 
stare, which melted the moment he perceived a young gentle 
man who descended behind me. I heard him cry out “A 

20 Chaise for his Lordship!” at which command two of his assist- 
ants ran out together. Suspicion had plainly gripped his soul 
overnight, and this, added to mortified vanity at having been 
duped, was sufficient for him to allow me to leave the inn un- 
attended. Nor could I greatly blame him, for you must know, 

25 my dears, that at that time London was filled with adventur- 
ers of all types. 

I felt a deal like an impostor, in truth, as I stepped into the 
street, disdaining to inquire of any of the people of the Star 
and Garter where an American agent might be found. The 

30 day was gray and cheerless, the colour of my own spirits as I 
walked toward the east, knowing that the city lay that way, 
But I soon found plenty to distract me. 
To a lad such as I, bred in a quiet tho’ prosperous colonial 
town, a walk through London was a revelation. Here in the 
35 Pall Mall the day was not yet begun, tho’ for some scarecé 
ended. I had not gone fifty paces from the hotel before ] 
came upon a stout gentleman with twelve hours of claret 1 | 


‘ 


| LONDON TOWN | 226 


side him, brought out of a coffee house and put with vast dif-" 
ficulty into his chair; and | stopped to watch the men stagger 
off with their load to St. James’s Street. Next I met a squad 
of red-coated guards going to the palace, and after them a 
igrand coach and six rattled over the Scotch granite, swaying 5 
|to a degree that chreatened to shake off the footmen clinging 
behind. Within, a man with an eagle nose sat impassive, ‘and 
‘I set him down for one of the King’ s ministers. 

Presently I came out into a wide space, which I knew to be 
Charing Cross by the statue of Charles the First which stood ro 
‘in the centre of it, and the throat of a street which was just in 
front of me must be the Strand. Here all was life and bustle. 
‘On one hand was Golden’s Hotel, and a crowded mail-coach 
was dashing out from the arch beneath it, the horn blowing 
‘merrily; on the other hand, so I was told by a friendly man in rs 
brown, was Northumberland House, the gloomy grandeur 
whereof held my eyes for a time. And I made bold to ask in 
what district were those who had dealings with the colonies. 
‘He scanned me with a puzzling look of commiseration. 

_ “Ye’re not a-going to sell yereself for seven year, my lad?” 20 
said he. “I was near that myself when I was young, and I 
‘thank God to this day that I talked first to an honest man, 
‘even as you are doing. They’ll give ye a pretty tale,—the 
factors,—of a land of milk and honey, when it’s naught but 
‘stripes and curses ye’ll get.” 25 

And he was about to rebuke me hotly, when I told him I 
had come from Maryland, where I was born. 

“Why, ye speak like a gentleman!” he exclaimed. “I was 
informed that all talk like naygurs over there. And is it not 
so of your redemptioners?!” 30 

I said that depended upon the master they got. 

_ “Then I take it ye are looking for the lawyers, who mostly 
represent the planters. And ye ll find them at the Temple of 
Lincoln’ s Inn.” 

~ I replied that he I sought was not an attorney, but a man3s 
of business. Whereupon he said that I should find all those in 
a batch about the North and South American Coffee House, 


i‘, 








‘56 RICHARD CARVEL 





















‘in Threadneedle Street. And he pointed me into the Stran 
adding that I had but to follow my nose to St. Paul’s, a 
there inquire. 
I would I might give you some notion of the great artery of 
5 London in those days, for it has changed much since I went 
down it that heavy morning in April, 1770, fighting my way. 
Ay, truly, fighting my way, for the street then was no place 
for the weak and timid, when bullocks ran through it in 
droves, on the way to Pe i 99 when it was often jammed fro 
ro wall to wall with wagons, and carmen and truckmen : 
coachmen. swung their whips and cursed one another to the 
extent of their lungs. Near St. Clement Danes I was pack 
in a crowd for ten minutes while two of these fellows formal | 
ring and fought for the right of way, stopping the trafhe 
rs far as [ could see. Dustmen, and sweeps, and even beggars, 
jostled you on the corners, bullies tried to push you against 
the posts or into the kennels; and once, in Butchers’ Row, 1 
was stopped by a flashy, soft-tongued fellow who would have 
lured me into a tavern near 
20 Lhe noises were bedlam ten times over. Shopmen stood B | 
their doors and cried, ‘‘ Rally up, rally up, buy, buy, buy! 
venders shouted saloop and barley, furmity, Shrewsbury cakes 
and hot peascods, rosemary and lavender, small coal and seal 
ing-wax, and others bawled “‘ Pots to solder!’ and “ Knives to 
es grind!” ‘Then there was the incessant roar of the heavy 
wheels over the rough stones, and the rasp and shriek of the 
brewers’ sledges as ‘they moved clumsily along. As for the 
odours, from that of the roasted coffee and food. of the tave 
erns, to the stale fish on the stalls, and worse, I can say noths 
3oing. They surpassed imagination. . 
‘At length, upon emerging from Butchers’ Row, I came upon 
some stocks standing in the street, and beheld ahead of m+ 
great gateway stretching across the Strand from house # 
house. Its stone was stained with age, and the stern front 
35 of it seemed to mock the unseemly and impetuous haste ol 
the tide rushing through its arches. I stood and gazed, nor 
| needed one to tell me that those two grinning skulls above it, 


4 





LONDON TOWN 227 


swinging to the wind on the pikes, were rebel heads. Bare and 
bleached now, and exposed to a cruel view, but once caressed 
by loving hands, was the last of those whom devotion to the 
house of Stuart had brought from their homes to Temple Bar. 

I halted by the Fleet Market, nor could I resist the desire , 
‘to go into St. Paul’s, to feel like a pebble in a bell under its 
mighty dome; and it lacked but half an hour of noon when 
I had come out at the Poultry and finished gaping at the 
‘Mansion House. I missed Threadneedle Street and went 
down Cornhill, in my ignorance mistaking the Royal Ex-1 
‘change, with its long piazza and high tower, for the coffee 
‘house I sought: in the great hall I begged a gentleman to 
direct me to Mr. Dix, if he knew such a person. He shrugged 
his shoulders, which mystified me somewhat, but answered 
‘with a ready good-nature that he was likely to be found at1s 
‘that time at Tom’s Coffee House in Birchin Lane near by, 
whither [ went with him. He climbed the stairs ahead of me 
and directed me, puffing, to the news room, which I found 
filled with men, some writing, some talking eagerly, and others 
turning over newspapers. The servant there looked me over 20 
with no great favour, but on telling him my business he went 
off, and returned with a young man of a pink and white com- 
iplexion, in a green riding-frock, leather breeches, and top 
‘boots, who said:— 
| “Well, my man, I am Mr. Dix.” 25 
| There was a look about him, added to his tone and manner, 
set me strong against him. I knew his father had not been of 
this stamp. 
| “And I am Mr. Richard Carvel, grandson to Mr. Lionel 
Carvel, of Carvel Hall, in Maryland,” I replied, much in the 30 
Same way. 

He thrust his hands into his breeches and stared very 
hard. 
“You?” he said finally, with something very near a laugh. 
“Sir, a gentleman’s word usually suffices!’’ I cried. 35 

,ag y e 35 

He changed his tone a little. 
g “Your pardon, Mr. Carvel,” he said, “but we men of busi- 














Vs 
a 


228 RICHARD CARVEL | ¥ 


- 
ness have need to be careful. Let us sit, and I will examine 
your letters. Your determination must have been suddenil 
taken,” he added, ‘‘for I have nothing from Mr. Carvel on the 
subject of your coming.” ¥ 
s ‘Letters! You have heard nothing!” I gasped, and there 
stopped short and clinched the table. “Has not my grand> 
father written of my disappearance?!’ ¢ 


Immediately his expression went back to the one he had 
met me with. “Pardon me,” he said again. | t 
xo 1 composed myself as best I could in the face of his incredue 

lity swallowing with an effort the aversion I felt to giving him 

my story. f 

“T think it strange he has not informed you,” I said; “I 
was kidnapped near Annapolis last Christmas-time, and put 

13 on board of a slaver, from which I was rescued by great good 
fortune, and brought to Scotland. And I have but just made 

my way to London.” i 

“The thing is not likely, Mr.—, Mr.—;” he said, drums 
ming impatiently on the board. = 

20  TLhen I lost control of myself. f 

“As sure as I am heir to Carvel Hall, Mr. Dix,” I cried, 
rising, ‘‘you shall pay for your insolence by forfeiting yout 
agency!” . 

Now the man was a natural coward, with a sneer for some 

2s and a smirk for others. He went to the smirk. 

“T am but looking to Mr. Carvel’s interests the best I know 
how,” he replied; “and if indeed you be Mr. Richard Carvel 
then you must applaud my caution, sir, in seeking proofs.” 

“Proofs I have none,” I cried; “the very clothes on mj 

30 back are borrowed from a Scotch seaman. My God, Mr. Dix 
do I look like a rogue?” & 

‘Were I to advance money upon appearances, sir, I shoul 
be insolvent in a fortnight. But stay,” he cried uneasily, as) 
flung back my chair, “stay sir. Is there no one of your proy 

35 ince in the town to attest your identity?” * 

‘Ay, that there is,” I said bitterly; “you shall hear fro 

Mr. Manners soon, I promise you.” 






| LONDON TOWN 229 


“Pray, Mr. Carvel,” he said, overtaking me on the stairs, 
“you will surely allow the situation to be—extraordinary, 
you will surely commend my discretion. Permit me, sir, to 
go with you to Arlington Street.’”’ And he sent a lad in haste 
to the Exchange for a hackney-chaise, which was soon brought s 

around. 

I got in, somewhat mollified, and ashamed of my heat: still 
disliking the man, but acknowledging he had the better right 
on his side. True to his kind he gave me every mark of po- 
liteness now, asked particularly after Mr. Carvel’s health, and ro 
encouraged me to give him as much of my adventure as | 
thought proper. But what with the rattle of the carriage and 
the street noises and my disgust, I did not care to talk, and 
presently told him as much very curtly. He persisted, how- 
lever, in pointing out the sights, the Fleet prison, and where 15 
ithe Ludgate stood six years gone; and the Devil’s ‘Tavern, of 
old Ben Jonson’s time, and the Mitre and the Cheshire 
Cheese and the Cock, where Dr. Johnson might be found near 
the end of the week at his dinner. He showed me the King’s 
Mews above Charing Cross, and the famous theatre in the zo 
Haymarket, and we had but turned the corner into Piccadilly 
when he cried excitedly at a passing chariot:— 

“There, Mr. Carvel, there go my Lord North and Mr. 
Rigby!” 

; ET he devil take them, Mr. Dix!’ I exclaimed. 25 

He was silent after that, glancing at me covertly from while 
to while until we swung into Arlington Street. Before I knew 
we were stopped in front of the house, but as I set foot on the 
step I found myself confronted by a footman in the Manners 
livery, who cried out angrily to our man: “Make way, make 30 
way for his Grace of Chartersea!’’ Turning, I saw a coach 
behind, the horses dancing at the rear wheels of the chaise. 
We alighted hastily, and I stood motionless, my heart jump- 
ing quick and hard in the hope and fear that Dorothy was 
‘within, my eye fixed on the coach door. But when the foot- 35 
‘man pulled it open and lowered the step, out lolled a very 
broad man with a bloated face and little, beady eyes without a 











230 +.  .: RICHARD CARVEL 






spark of meaning, and something very like a hump was on \ 1e 
top of his back. He wore a yellow top-coat, and red-heelec 
shoes of the latest fashion, and I settled at once he was of 
Duke of Chartersea. 
s Next came little Mr. Manners, stepping daintily as ever; 
and then, as the door closed with a bang, I remembered my 
errand. They had got halfway to the portico. 
“Mr. Manners!” I cried. wf 
He faced about, and his Grace also, and both stared in well 
to bred surprise. As I live, Mr. Manners looked into my face,= 
into my very eyes, and gave no sign of recognition. And what 
between astonishment and anger, and a contempt that arose 
within me, I could not speak. ‘) 
“Give the man a shilling, Manners,” said his Graces “we 
15 can’t stay here forever.” a | 
“Ay, give the man a shilling,” lisped Mr. Manners to the 
footman. And they passed into the house, and the door was 
shut. ¢ 
Then I heard Mr. Dix at my elbow, saying in a soft voice:—= 


20 ~~“ Now, my fine gentleman, is there any good reason why you 


should not ride to Bow Street with me?” 

** As there is a God in heaven, Mr. Dix,” I answered, very 
low, “‘if you attempt to lay hands on me, you shall answer fot 
it! And you shall hear from me yet, at the Star and Garter 

4- hotel.’ i 
: I spun on my heel and left him, nor did he follow; and 2a 
great lump was in my throat and tears welling in my eyes. 


What would John Paul say? 








| CHAPTER XXIV 


a CASTLE YARD 


Bur I did not go direct to the Star and Garter. No, I lacked 
1€ courage to say to John Paul: ‘‘ You have trusted me, and 
us is how I have rewarded your faith.” And the thought 
iat Dorothy’s father, of all men, had served me thus, after 
hat I had gone through, filled me with a bitterness I had ; 
ever before conceived. And when my brain became clearer I 
‘flected that Mr. Manners had had ample time to learn of my 
\sappearance from Maryland, and that his action had been 
bs of design, and of cold blood. But I gave to Dorothy or 
*x mother no part in it. Mr. Manners never had had cause 10 
+ hate me, and the only reason I could assign was connected 
ith his Grace of Chartersea, which I dismissed as absurd. 

A few drops of rain warned me to seek shelter. I knew not 
here I was, nor how long I had been walking the streets at a 
‘lous pace. But a huckster told me I was in Chelsea, and rs 
ndly directed me back to Pall Mall. The usual bunch of 
nairmen was around the hotel entrance, but I noticed a 
suple of men at the door, of sharp features and unkempt 
fess, and heard a laugh as I went in. My head swam as I 
umbled up the stairs and fumbled at the knob, when I heard 20 
dices raised inside, and the door was suddenly and violently 
ifown open. Across the sill stood a big, rough-looking man 
ith his hands on his hips. 

“Oho! Here be the other fine bird a-homing, I’ll warrant,” 

2 cried. 25 
The place was full. I caught sight of Davenport, the tailor, 
ith a wry face, talking against the noise; of Banks, the man 
hhad hired, resplendent in my livery. One of the hotel serv- 
its was in the corner perspiring over John Paul’s chests 
be 


4 231 





oa RICHARD CARVEL 


and beside him stood a man disdainfully turning over witl 
his foot the contents, as they were thrown on the floor. I saj 
him kick the precious vellum-hole waistcoat across the roor 
in wrath and disgust, and heard him shout above the rest= 

s “The lot of them would not bring a guinea from any Je 
in St..Martin’s Lane!” 

In the other corner, by the writing-desk, stood the hatte 
and the haberdasher with their heads together. And in th 
very centre of the confusion was the captain himself. He wa 

ro drest in his new clothes Davenport had brought, and surprise 
me by his changed appearance, and looked as fine a gentlema 
as any I have ever seen. His face lighted with relief at sigh 
of me. 

‘Now may I tell these rogues begone, Richard?” he criec 

x5 And turning to the man confronting me, he added, “Thi 
gentleman will settle their beggarly accounts.’ 

Then I knew we had to do with bailiffs, and my heat 
failed me. 

“Likely,” laughed the big man; “I’ll stake my oath he he 

20not a groat to pay their beggarly accounts, as your honou 
is pleased to call them.” 

They ceased jabbering and straightened to attention, awat 
ing my reply. But I forgot them all, and thought only of th 
captain, and of the trouble I had brought him. He began t 

25 Show some consternation as I went up to him. 

““My dear friend,” I said, vainly trying to steady my voice 
“T beg, I pray that you will not lose faithan me,—that ye 
will not think any deceit of mine has brought you to the 
straits. Mr. Dix did not know me, and has had no word fro} 

30my grandfather of my disappearance. And Mr. Manner 
whom I thought my friend, spurned me in the street befoi 
the Duke of Chartersea.” 

And no longer master of myself, I sat down at the table an 
hid my face, shaken by great sobs, to think that this was m 

35 return for his kindness. | 

“What,” I heard him cry, “Mr. Manners spurned yor 

Richard! By all the law in Coke and Littleton, he sha 


q 


CASTLE YARD sie 


aswer for it to me. Your fairweather fowl shall have the 
yance to run me through!” 
| I sat up in bewilderment, doubting my senses. 

“You believe me, captain,” I:said, overcome by the man’s 
ith; “you believe me when I tell you that one I have known s 
om childhood refused to recognize me to-day?!” 

He raised me in his arms as tenderly as a woman might. 
‘And the whole world denied you, lad, I would not. I 
slieve you—”’ and he repeated it again and again, unable to 
et farther. 10 
And if his words brought tears to my eyes, my strength 
ime with them. 
“Then I care not,” I replied; “only to live to reward you.’ 
|“Mr. Manners shall answer for it to me!” cried John en 
ain, and made a pace toward the door. Is 
/“Not so fast, not so fast, captain, or admiral, or whatever 
yu are,’’ said the bail iff, stepping in his way, for/he-was used 
' such scenes; “‘as God reigns, the owners of all these fierce 
tles be fire eaters, who would spit you if you spilt snuff upon 
im. Come, come, gentlemen, your swords, and we shall see 20 
ie sights o’ London.” 
| This was the signal for another uproar, the tailor shrieking 
(at John Paul must take off the suit, and Banks the livery; 
king the man in the corner by the sea-chests (who proved to 
+ the landlord) who was to pay him for his work and his lost 25 
loth. And the landlord shook his fist at us and shouted back, 
ho was to pay him his four pounds odd, which included two 
n-shilling dinners and a flask of his best wine? The other 
adesmen seized what was theirs and made off with remarks 
propriate to the occasion. And when John Paul and my 30 
jan were divested of their plumes, we were marched down- 
airs and out through a jeering line of people to a hackney 
bach. 
: | Now, sirs, whereaway?”’ said the bailiff when we were got 

| beside one of his men, and burning with shame of 1t; 35 
to the prison? Or I has a very pleasant hotel for gentle- 
ie in Castle Yard.” 











234 | RICHARD CARVEL a. I 


The frightful stories my dear grandfather had told na 
the Fleet came flooding into my head, and I shuddered an 
turned sick. I glanced : at John Paul. t 

“A guinea will not go far in a sponging-house,” said he, an 

5 the bailiff’s man laughed. 

The bailiff gave a direction we did not hear, and we dll 
off. He proved a bluff fellow with a blunt yet not unkin 
humour, and despite his calling seemed to have something th; 
was human in him. He passed many a joke on that pitifi 

ro journey in an attempt to break our despondency, urging 1 
not to be downcast, and reminding us that the last gentleme 
he had taken from Pall Mall was in over a thousand pound 
and that our amount was a bagatelle. And when we had got 
through Temple Bar, instead of keeping on down Fleet sug 

15 We jolted into Chancery Lane. This roused me. 

“My friend has warned you that he has no money,” I sail 

“and no more have I.” e 

The bailiff regarded me shrewdly. 

DAYS he replied, ‘“‘] know. But I has seen many strip 

20 0 men in my time, my masters, and I know them to trust, ar 
them whose silver I must feel or send to the Fleet.” . 

I told him unreservedly my case, and that he must take h 
chance of being paid; that I could not hear from America fi 
three months at least. He listened without much show | 

25 attention, shaking his head from side to side. f 

“Tf you ever cheated a man, or the admiral here either, the 
I begin over again,” he biden in with decision; “‘it is the fit 
sparks from the clubs I has to watch. You'll not worry, si 
about me. Take my oath I’ll get interest out of you on 4 

30 money.’ 

Unwilling as we both were to be beholden to a bailiff, R 
alternative of the Fleet was too terrible to be thought of. 
so we alighted after him with a shiver at the sight of the ca 
grimy face of the house, and the dirty windows all barred 

3s double iron. In answer to a knock we were presently admitt 
by a turnkey to a vestibule as black as a tomb, and the heay 
outer door was locked behind us. Then, as the man cu 





CASTLE YARD 235 


ad groped for the keyhole of the inner door, despair laid hold 

* me. 

Once inside, in the half light of a narrow hallway, a variety 

* noises greeted our ears,—laughter from above and below, 
iterspersed with oaths; the click of billiard balls, and thes 
>casional hammering of a pack of cards on a bare table before 
ie shuffle. The air was close almost to suffocation, and out 
*the coffee room, into which I glanced, came a heavy cloud 
‘tobacco smoke. 

“Why, my masters, why so glum ?”" said the bailiff; “my 10 
\m is not such a bad place, and you'll find ample good com- 
any here, I promise you. 
\And he led us into a dingy antechamber littered with 
‘pers, on every one of which, I daresay, was written a trag- 
ily. Then he inscribed our names, ages, descriptions, and the rs 
ise in a great book, when we followed him up three flights to 
\low room under the eaves, having but one small window, 
ad bare of furniture save two narrow cots for beds, a broken 
jair, and a cracked mirror. He explained that cash boarders 
it better, and added that we might be happy we were not in 20 
ie Fleet. 
|“We dine at two here, gentlemen, and sup at eight. This 
[a the Star and Garter,” said he as he left us. 

It was the captain who spoke first, though he swallowed 
vice before the words came out. 25 
“Come, Richard, come, laddie,”’ he said, *‘’tis no so bad it 
icht-na be waur. We'll make the maist o’ it.” 

“T care not for myself, Captain Paul,” I replied, marvelling 
1¢ more at him, “but to think that I have landed you here, 
lat this is my return for your sacrifice.”’ 30 
“Hoots! How was ye to foresee Mr. Manners was a blel- 
m?” And he broke into threats which, if Mr. Marmaduke 
id heard and comprehended, would have driven him.i into the 
venth state of fear. ‘Have you no other friends in Lon- 
on?” he asked, regaining his English. 35 
I shook my head. Then came a question I dreaded. 

“And Mr. Manners’s family?” | 











236 RICHARD CARVEL - * @ 


yl 
*‘T would rather remain here for life,’”’ I said, “‘than appl 
to them now.” “4 
For pride is often selfish, my dears, and I did not refle 
that if I remained, the captain would remain likewise. 
s ‘Are they all like Mr. Manners?” 0 
“That they are not,” I returned with more heat than w; 
necessary; “his wife is goodness itself, and his daughter— 
Words failed me, and I reddened. a 
“Ah, he has a daughter, you say,” said the captain, castil 
ro a significant look at me and beginning to pace the little roor 
He was keener than I thought, this John Paul. 4 
If it were not so painful a task, my dears, I would give ye 
here some notion of what a London sponging-house was in tl 
last century. Comyn has heard me tell of it, and I have se 
15 Bess cry over the story. Gaming was the king-vice of th 
age, and it filled these places to overflowing. Heaven help 
man who came into the world with that propensity in the eat 
days of King George the Third. Many, alas, acquired it b 
fore they were come to years of discretion. Next me, att 
2olong table where we were all thrown in together,—all wl 
could not pay for private meals,—sat a poor fellow who hi 
flung away a patrimony of three thousand a year. Anoth 
had even mortgaged to a Jew his prospects on the death of | 
mother, and had been seized by the bailiffs outside of t 
25 James’s palace, coming to Castle Yard direct from his Mj 
esty’s levee. Yet another, with such a look of dead hope in] 
eyes as haunts me yet, would talk to us by the hour of t 
Devonshire house where he was born, of the green valley ai 
the peaceful stream, and of the old tower-room caressed | 
30 trees, where Queen Bess had once lain under the carved 0 
rafters. Here he had taken his young wife, and they used 


sit together, so he said, in the sunny oriel over the water, a 


he had sworn to give up the cards. That was but three ye 
since, and then all had gone across the green cloth in one m 
35 night in St. James’s Street. Their friends had deserted i | 
and the poor little woman was lodged in Holborn near by, a 
came every morning with some little dainty to the bailiff 






| CASTLE. .YARD ) 237 
or her liege lord who had so used her. He pressed me to 
hare a fowl with him one day, but it would have choked 
ae. God knows where she got the money to buy it. I saw 
er once hanging on his neck in the hall, he trying to shield 
er from the impudent gaze of his fellow-lodgers. 

But some of them lived like lords in luxury, with never 
| seeming regret; and had apartments on the first floor, and 
jad their tea and paper in bed, and lounged out the morning 
1a flowered nightgown, and the rest of the day in a laced 
pat. These drank the bailiff’s best port and champagne, and ro 
ad nothing better than a frown or haughty look for us, when 

e passed them at the landing. Whence the piper was paid 
‘knew not, and the bailiff cared not. But the bulk of the 
oor gentlemen were a merry crew withal, and had their wit 
iad their wine at table, and knew each other’s histories (and 15 
yon enough ours) by heart. They betted away the week at 
illiards or whist or picquet or loo, and sometimes measured 
words for diversion, tho’ this pastime the bailiff was greatly 
st against, as calculated to deprive him of a lodger. 
| Although we had no money for gaming, and little for wine 20 
t tobacco, the captain and I were received very heartily into 
ne fraternity. After one afternoon of despondency we both 
oted it the worst of bad policy to remain aloof and nurse our 
iisfortune, and spent our first evening in making acquaint- 
aces over a deal of very thin “debtor’s claret.” I tossed long 25 
lat night on the hard cot, listening to the scurrying rats 
mong the roof-timbers. They ran like the thoughts in my 
rain. And before I slept I prayed again and again that God 
ould put it in my power to reward him whom charity for 
friendless foundling had brought to a debtor’s prison. 30 
! a so much as a single complaint or reproach had passed 
is lips! 








eee ad 
re, ie ‘Ves 


CHAPTER XXV 


THE RESCUE 


Se eubeay: 


q 

PERCHANCE, my dears, if John Paul and I had not been cas 

by accident in a debtor’s prison, this great man might neye 
have bestowed upon our country those glorious services whi¢ 
contributed so largely to its liberty. And I might never hay 

; comprehended that the American Revolution was brought 0 
and fought by a headstrong king, backed by unscrupulous fo) 
lowers who held wealth above patriotism. It is often difficul 
to lay finger upon the causes which change the drift of 
man’s opinions, and so I never wholly knew why John Par 
ro abandoned his deep-reoted purpose to obtain Mii 
London by grace of the accomplishments he had laboured $ 
hard to attain. But I believe the beginning was at the meetin 
at Windsor with the slim and cynical gentlernan who ha 
treated him to something between patronage and contemp 
1s Then my experience with Mr. Manners had so embedded itse 
in his mind that he could never speak of it but with impatiem 
and disgust. And, lastly, the bailiff’s hotel contained mar 
born gentlemen who had been left here to rot out the rest: 
their dreary lives by friends who were still in power ar 
20 opulence. More than once when I climbed to our garret 
found the captain seated on the three-legged chair, eo 
head between his hands, sunk in reflection. ik 
“You were right, Richard,” said he; “your great world) 

a hard world for those in the shadow of it. I see now th 
2s it must not be entered from below, but from the cabin wi 


D 


dow. A man may climb around it, lad, and when he ts a 


may scourge it.” 
“And you will scourge it, captain!” I had no doubt of 


ability one day to do it. 
238 4 


| THE RESCUE 239 
“Ay, and snap my fingers atit. ’lis a pretty organization, 
lis society, which kicks the man who falls to the dogs. None 
‘your fine gentlemen for me!” 
And he would descend to talk politics with our fellow-guests. 
le should have been unhappy indeed had it not been for this 5 
jastme. It seems to me strange that these debtors took such 
keen interest in outside affairs, even tho’ it was a time of 
leat agitation. We read with eagerness the cast-off news- 
apers of the first-floor gentlemen. One poor devil who had 
addled! in Change Alley had collected under his mattress the 1o 
tters of Junius, then selling the Public Advertiser as few 
ublications had ever sold before. John Paul devoured these 
ttacks upon his Majesty and his ministry in a single after- 
oon, and ere long he had on the tip of his tongue the name 
lad value of every man in Parliament and out of it. Hers 
harned, almost by heart, the history of the astonishing fight 
ade by Mr. Wilkes for the liberties of England, and speedily 
las as good a Whig and a better than the member from Mid- 
‘lesex himself. 
| The most of our companions were Tories, for, odd as 1t may 20 
‘ppear, they retained their principles even in Castle Yard. 
ind in those days to be a Tory was to be the friend of the 
ing, and to be the friend of the King was to have some hope 
f advancement and reward at his hand. They had none. 
(he captain joined forces with the speculator from the Alley, 25 
vho had hitherto contended against mighty odds, and to- 
jether they bore down upon the enemy—ay, and routed him, 
oo. For John Paul had an air about him and a natural gift 
f oratory to command attention, and shortly the dining 
oom after dinner became the scene of such contests as to call 30 
ip in the minds of the old stagers a field night in the good 
lays of Mr. Pitt and the Second George. The bailiff often sat 
yy the door, an interested spectator, and the macaroni lodgers 
erence’ to come downstairs and listen. The captain at- 
Lained to fame in our little world from his maiden address, 35 
n which he very shrewdly separated the political character 
1Failed. 


a 




















240 RICHARD CARVEL 


\ 
\ 
\ 


of Mr. -Wilkes from his character as a private gentleman 
and so refuted a charge of profligacy against the people’ 
champion. 
Altho’ I never had sufficient confidence in my powers t 
5 join in these discussions, I followed them zealously, especialh, 
when they touched American questions, as they frequenth 
did. This subject of the wrongs of the colonies was the onl; 
one I could ever be got to study at King William’s School 
and I believe that my intimate knowledge of it gave the cap 
ro tain a surprise. He fell into the habit of seating himself o1 
the edge of my bed after we had retired for the night, an 
would hold me talking until the small hours upon the in 
justice of taxing a people without their consent, and upon th. 
multitude of measures of coercion which the King had presse 
15 upon us to punish our resistance. He declaimed so loudh 
against the tyranny of quartering troops upon a peaceabl| 
state that our exhausted neighbors were driven to poundin, 
their walls and ceilings for peace. The news of the Bostoi 
massacre had not then reached England. 
20 1 was not, therefore, wholly taken by surprise when he sai\| 
to me one night:— | 
“T am resolved to try my fortune in America, lad. That i! 
the land for such as I, where a man may stand upon his owl’ 
merits.” . 
25 ‘Indeed, we shall go together, captain,’ I answered heart! 
ily, “‘if we are ever free of this cursed house. And you shal 
taste of our hospitality at Carvel Hall, and choose that caree 
which pleases you. Faith, I could point you a dozen exam| 
ples in Annapolis of men who have made their way withou 
3oinfluence. But you shall have influence,” I cried, glowing a 
the notion of rewarding him; “‘you shall experience Mr. Car’ 
vel’s gratitude and mine. You shall have the best of our ships’ 
and you will.” 
He was a man to take fire easily, and embraced me. And 
35 Strange to say, neither he nor I saw the humour, nor the pity 
of the situation. How many another would long before hay 
become sceptical of my promises! And justly. For I ha 


THE ‘RESCUE 241 


a him to London, spent all his savings, and then got him 
‘nto a miserable prison, and yet he had faith remaining, and 
‘0 spare! 
It occurred to me to notify Mr. Dix of my residence in 
Jastle Yard, not from any hope that he would turn his hand s 
yo my rescue, but that he might know where to find me if he 
neard from Maryland.. And I penned another letter to Mr. 
Darvel, but a feeling I took no pains to define compelled me to 
withhold an account of Mr. Manners’s conduct. And I re- 
‘rained from telling him that I was in a debtor’s prison. For 10 
| believe the thought of a Carvel in a debtor’s prison would 
rave killed him. I said only that we were comfortably lodged 
na modest part of London; that the Manners were inaccessi- 
dle (for I could not bring myself to write that they were out 
town). Just then a thought struck me with such force that rs 
| got up with a cheer and hit the astonished captain between 
the shoulders. 
| “How now!” he cried, ruefully rubbing himself. “If these 
are thy amenities, Richard, Heaven spare me thy blows.” 
“Why, I have been a fool, and worse,” I shouted. “My 20 
grandfather’s ship, the Savachily Bess, is overhauling this 
winter in the Severn. And unless she has sailed, wack I 
think unlikely, I have but to despatch a line to Bristol to 
summon Captain Bell, the master, to London. [| think he will 
bring the worthy Mr. Dix to terms.’ 25 
| “Whether he will or no,” said John Paul, hope lighting his 
face, “ Bell must have command of the twenty pounds to free 
us, and will take us back to America. For if must own, Rich- 
ard, that I have no great love for London.” 
| No more had I. I composed this letter to Bell in such haste 30 
that my hand shook, and sent it off with a shilling to the bail- 
ifs servant, that it might catch the post. And that after- 
noon we had a two-shilling bottle of port for dinner, which we 
shared with a broken-down parson who had been chaplain in 
ordinary to my Lord Wortley, and who had preached us angs5_ 
a sermon the day before. For it was Easter Monday. 
Our talk was broken into by the bailiff, who informed me that 


h 


_ 


& 


Wee RICHARD CARVEL | 
a man awaited me in the passage, and my heart leaped i inte 
my throat. | 

There was Banks. Thinking he had come to reproach me 
I asked him rather sharply what he wanted. He shifted his 
5 hat from one hand to the other and looked sheepish. 
“Your pardon, sir,’ ” said he, “‘but your hones must be 
very ill-served here.” 
“Better than I should be, Banks, for I have no money,” J 
said, wondering if he thought me a first-floor lodger. 

10 He made no immediate reply to that, either, but seemed 
more uneasy still. And I took occasion to note his appear- 
ance. He was exceeding neat in a livery of his old master, 
which he had stripped of the trimmings. Then, before I had 
guessed at his drift, he thrust his hand inside his coat and 

1s drew forth a pile of carefully folded bank notes. 

“TI be a single man, sir, and has small need of this. And— 
and I knows your honour will pay me when your letter come: 
from America.” 

And he handed me five Bank of England. notes of ter, 

20 pounds apiece. I took them mechanically, without knowing 
what I did. The generosity of the act benumbed my senses 
and for the instant I was inclined to accept the offer upor 
the impulse of it. | 

“How do you know you would get your money again 

25 Banks?” I asked curiously. | 

“No fear, sir,’ he replied promptly, actually brightening a) 
the prospect. “‘I knows gentlemen, sir, them that are such, sir 
And I will go to America with you, and you say the word, sir.’ 
I was more touched than I cared to show over his ‘offal 

30 which I scarce knew how to refuse. In truth it was a difficul 
task, for he pressed me again and again, and when he saw mi 
firm, turned away to wipe his eyes upon his sleeve. ‘Then hi 
begged me to let him remain and serve me in the sponging| 
house, saying that he would pay his own way. The ver), 

35 thought of a servant in the bailiff’s garret made me laugh, anc 
so I put him off, first getting his address, and promising | 
employment on ‘the day of my release. 


Peiwte 48 


THE RESCUE 243 


On Wednesday we looked for a reply from Bristol, if not 
Jor the appearance of Bell himself, and when neither came 
ipprehension seized us lest he had already sailed for Mary- 
and. The slender bag of Thursday’s letters contained none 
forme. Nevertheless, we both did our best to keep in humour, s 
orbearing to mention to one another the hope that had gone. 
*niday seemed the beginning of eternity; the day dragged 
through I know not how, and toward evening we climbed 
yack to our little room, not daring to speak of what we knew 
nour hearts to be so,—that the Sprightly Bess had sailed. We 10 
jat silently looking out over the dreary stretch of roofs and 
lown into a dingy court of Bernard’s Inn below, when sud- 
lenly there arose a commotion on the stairs, as of a man 
mounting hastily. The door was almost flung from its hinges, 
jome one caught me by the shoulders, gazed eagerly into my 15 
‘ace, and drew back. For a space I thought myself dreaming. 
| searched my memory, and the name came. Had it been 
Dorothy, or Mr. Carvel himself, I could not have been more 
istonished, and my knees weakened under me. 

“Jack!” I exclaimed; “Lord Comyn!” 20 
| He seized my hand. “‘Yes; Jack, whose life you saved, 
ind no other,” he cried, with a sailor’s impetuosity. “‘My 
‘god, Richard! it was true, then; and you have been in this 
lice for three weeks!”’ 
| “For three weeks,” I repeated. 25 

He looked at me, at John Paul, who was standing by in 
»yewilderment, and then about the grimy, cobwebbed walls of 

the dark garret, and then turned his back to hide his emotion, 
ind so met the bailiff, who was coming in. 

“For how much are these gentlemen in your books?”’ he 30 
lemanded hotly. 

“A small matter, your Lordship,—a mere trifle,” said the 
‘nan, bowing. 
| “How much, I say?” 

i “Twenty-two guineas, five shillings, and eight pence, my 35 
ord, counting debts and board,—and interest,” the bailiff 
PY replied; for he had no doubt taken off the account when 


I 


244 RICHARD CARVEL 


he spied his Lordship’s coach. “And I was very good to M 
Carvel and the captain, as your Lordship will discover— 
“D—n your goodness!” said my Lord, cutting him shor 
And he pulled out a wallet and threw some pieces at the bailif 
s bidding him get change with all haste. “And now, Richard, 
he added, with a glance of disgust about him, “pack up, an| 
we ll out of this cursed hole!” 

“T have nothing to pack, my Lord,’ I said. | 

“My Lord! Jack, I have told you, or I leave you here.” 

ro “Well, then, Jack, and you will,” said I, overflowing wit! 
thankfulness to God for the friends He had bestowed upon m) 
“But before we go a step, Jack, you must know the man bi 
for whose bravery I should long ago have been dead of fevi| 
and ill-treatment in the Indies, and whose generosity hz 
15 brought him hither. My Lord Comyn, this is Captain Joh| 
Paul.” 

The captain, who had been quite overwhelmed by th 
sudden arrival of a real lord to our rescue at the very momer 
when we had sunk to despair, and no less astonished by tt 

20 intimacy that seemed to exist between the newcomer and m)| 
self, had the presence of mind to bend his head, and that wz 
all. Comyn shook his hand heartily. 

“You shall not lack reward for this, captain, I promis| 
you,” cried he. ‘What you have done for Mr. Carvel, yo) 

2s have done for me. Captain, I thank you. You shall hay 
my interest.” 

I flushed, seeing John Paul draw his lips together. Bu 
how was his Lordship to know that he was dealing with r 
common sea-captain? 

30 “I have sought no reward, my Lord,” said he. “Whi 
I have done was out of friendship for Mr. Carvel, solely.” 

Comyn was completely taken by surprise by these word 
and by the haughty tone in which they were spoken. He ha 
not looked for a gentleman, and no wonder. He took a quiza| 

35 cal sizing of the sky-blue coat. Such a man in such a static, 
was out of his experience. 4 
“Kead, I believe you, captain,’ he answered, in a voi 


| 











THE RESCUE 245 


hich said plainly that he did not. ‘But he shall be rewarded 
evertheless, eh, Richard? I’ll see Charles Fox in this matter 
»morrow. Come, come,” he added impatiently, “the bailiff 
ust have his change by now. Come, Richard!” and he led 
ye way down the winding stairs. 

“You must not take offence at his ways,” I whispered to 
ye captain. For I well know that a year before I should 
ave taken the same tone with one not of my class. “His 
eee is all kindness.” 

_“T have learned a bit since I came into England, Richard,” 10 
vas his sober reply. 

“Twas a pitiful sight to see gathered on the landings the 
oor fellows we had come to know in Castle Yard, whose hori- 
ons were then as gray as ours was bright. But they each had 

cheery word of congratulation for us as we passed, and the 1s 
nhappy gentleman from Devonshire pressed my hand and 
egged that | would sometime think of him when I was out 
nder the sky. I promised even more, and am happy to be 
ble to say, my dears, that I saw both him and his wife off for 
imerica before I left London. Our eyes were wet when we 20 
gached the lower hall, and I was making for the door in an 
gony to leave the place, when the bailiff came out of his 
ttle office. 

'*One moment, sir,” he said, getting in front of me; “‘there 
3a little form yet to be gone through. The haste of gentle- 25 
1en to leave us is not flattering.” 

He glanced slyly at Comyn, and his Lordship laughed a 
ttle. I stepped unsuspectingly into the office. 

“Richard!” 

'I stopped across the threshold as tho’ I had been struck. 30 
“he late sunlight filtering through the dirt of the window fell 
pon the tall figure of a girl and lighted an upturned face, 
nd I saw tears glistening on the long lashes. 

It was Dorothy. Her hands were stretched out in welcome, 
nd then I had them pressed in my own. And I could only 3; 
90k and look again, for I was dumb with joy. 

“Thank God you are alive!” she cried; “alive and well, 


j 


MI 
ri 


“ 


y 


246 RICHARD CARVEL 


; ‘a 
when we feared you dead. Oh, Richard, we have been 
miserable indeed since we had news of your disappearance.” 
“This is worth it all, Dolly,” I said, only brokenly. 4 
She dropped her eyes, which had searched me through in 

5 wonder and pity,—those eyes I had so often likened to the 
deep blue of the sea,—and her breast rose and fell quickly 
with I knew not what emotions. How the mind runs, and the 
heart runs, at such a time! Here was the same Dorothy |] 
had known in Maryland, and yet not the same. For she was 

ro a woman now, who had seen the great world, who had refuse¢ 
both titles and estates,—and perchance accepted them. Shi 
drew her hands from mine. 

“And how came you in such a place?”’ she asked, turning 
with a shudder. ‘‘ Did you not know you had friends:in Lon 

rs don, sir?” 

Not for so much again would I have told her of Mr 
Manners’s conduct. So I stood confused, casting abou 
for a reply with truth in it, when Comyn broke in upol 
us. 4 

20 “Jl warrant you did not look for her here, Richard. Farth 
but you area lucky: dog,”’ said my Lord, shaking his head u 
mock dolefulness; “for there is no man in London, in th 
world, for whom she would descend a flight of steps, save you 
And now she has driven the length of the town when sh 

25 heard you were in a sponging-house, nor all the dowagers 1 
Mayfair could stop her.” 

“Fie, Comyn,’ ’ said my lady, blushing and gathering u 
her skirts; “that tongue of yours had hung you long sine 
had it not been for your peer’s privilege. Richard and I wer 

30 brought up as brother and sister, and you know you were fu 
as keen for his rescue as I.” 4 

His Lordship pinched me playfully. 3 

“I vow I would pass a year in the Fleet to have her doa 
much for me,” said he. 4 

3s “But where is the gallant seaman who saved you, Richard? 

asked Dolly, stamping her foot. 
“What,” I exclaimed; “‘you know the story?” 


/ 
i 
\ 


Bis Se es 





THE RESCUE 247 


“Never mind,” said she; “bring him here.” 

My conscience smote me, for I had not so much as thought 
of John Paul since I came into that room. I found him wait- 
ing in the passage, and took him by the hand. 

“A lady wishes to know you, captain,” I said. 

““A lady!” he cried. “Here? Impossible!’ And he looked 
at his clothes. 

“Who cares more for your heart than your appearance,” I 
answered gayly, and led him into the office. 

At sight of Dorothy he stopped abruptly, confounded, as a x0 
man who sees a diamond in a dust-heap. And a glow came 
over me as [ said:— 

“Miss Manners, here is Captain Paul, to whose courage and 
unselfishness | owe everything.” 

“Captain,” said Dorothy, graciously extending her hand, 15 
“Richard has many friends. You have put us ‘all in your 
debt, and none deeper than his old playmate.’ 

_ The captain fairly devoured her with his eyes as she made 
him a curtsey. But he was never lacking in gallantry, and 
es as brave on such occasions as when all the dangers of the 20 
deep threatened him. With an elaborate movement he took 
Miss Manners’s fingers and kissed them, and then swept the 
floor with a bow. 

*To have such a divinity in my debt, madam, is too much 
happiness for one man,” he said. “I have done nothing to 25 
merit it. A lifetime were all too short to pay for such a 
favour.” 

I had almost forgotten Miss Dolly the wayward, the mis- 
chievous. But she was before me now, her eyes sparkling, 
and biting her lips to keep down her laughter. Comyn turned 30 
to fleck the window with his handkerchief, while I was not a 
little put out at their mirth. But if John Paul observed it, he 
gave no sign. 

“Captain, I vow your manners are worthy of a French- 
man, said my Lord; “‘and yet I am given to understand you 35 
are a Scotchman.” 

A shadow crossed the captain’s face. 


248 RICHARD CARVEL 


‘*T was, sir,” he said. 
“You were!’ exclaimed Comyn, astonished; ‘and pray, 
what are you now, sir?” 


“Henceforth, my Lord,” John Paul replied with vast cere- | 


s mony, “I am an American; the compatriot of the beautiful 
Miss Manners!” 
“One thing I'll warrant, captain,”’ said his Lordship, “that 
you are a wit.” 


rat 


5 
“ 


CHAPTER XXVI 


THE PART HORATIO’ PLAYED 


Tue bailiff’s business was quickly settled. I heard the 
heavy doors close at our backs, and drew a deep draught of 
the air God has made for all His creatures alike. Both the 
captain and I turned to the windows to wave a farewell to the 
sad ones we were leaving behind, who gathered about the bars 5 
for a last view of us, for strange as it may seem, the mere 
sight of happiness is often a pleasure for those who are sad. 

A coach in private arms and livery was in waiting, surrounded 
by a crowd. They made a lane for us to pass, and stared at 
the young lady of queenly beauty coming out of the sponging=- 10 
house until the coachman snapped his whip in their faces and 
‘the footman jostled them back. When we were got in, Dolly 
and I on the back seat, Comyn told the man to go to Mr. 
Manners’s. 

“Oh, no!’ I cried, scarce knowing what I said; “‘no, notrs 
there!” For the thought of entering the house in Arlington 
Street was unbearable. 

Both Comyn and Dorothy gazed at me in astonishment. 

“And pray, Richard, why not?” she asked. “‘Have not 

: ; i 
your old friends the right to receive you! 20 

It was my Lord who saved me, for I was in agony what to 

say. 
 “Heis still proud, and won t go to Arlington Street dressed 
like a bargeman. He must needs plume, Miss Manners.” 

I glanced anxiously at Dorothy, and saw that she was 2s 
neither satisfied nor.appeased. Well I remembered every turn 
of her head, and every curve of her lip! In the meantime we 

were off through Cursitor Street at a gallop, nearly causing 
the death of a ragged urchin at the corner of Chancery Lane. 


. 249 
i 


\g 


, 
I had forgotten my eagerness to know whence they had heard 
of my plight, when some words from Comyn aroused me. _ 

“The carriage is Mr. Horace Walpole’s, Richard. He has” 
taken a great fancy to you.” 

5 ‘But I have never so much as clapped eyes upon him!” [_ 
exclaimed in perplexity. : 

“How about his honour with whom you supped at Windsor? — 
how about the landlord you spun by the neck? You should 
have heard the company laugh when Horry told us that! And_ 

xo Miss Dolly cried out that she was sure it must be Richard, 
and none other. Is it not so, Miss Manners?” 

“Really, my Lord, I can’t remember,” replied Dolly, look- 
ing out of the coach window. “Who put those frightful skulls 
upon lemple Bar?” | 

15 hen the mystery of their coming was clear to me, and the 
superior gentleman at the Castle Inn had been the fashionable 
dabbler in arts and letters and architecture of Strawberry — 
Hill, of whom I remembered having heard Dr. Courtenay ~ 
speak, Horace Walpole. But I was then far too concerned 

20 about Dorothy to listen to more. Her face was still turned 
away from me, and she was silent. I could have cut out my ~ 
tongue for my blunder. Presently, when we were nearly out — 
of the Strand, she turned upon me abruptly. ; 

“We have not yet heard, Richard,” she said, ““how you got” 

25 into such a predicament.” : 

“Indeed, I don’t know myself, Dolly. Some scoundrel ~ 
bribed the captain of the slaver. For I take it Mr. Walpole” 
has told you I was carried off on a slaver, if he recalled that 
much of the story.” | 

30 “I don’t mean that,” answered Dolly, impatiently. “There — 
is something strange about all this. How is it that you were — 
in prison?” te 

“Mr. Dix, my grandfather’s agent, took me for an im-_ 
postor and would advance me no money,” I answered, hard — 

35 pushed. ‘ 

But Dorothy had a woman’s insinct, which is often the~ 


me 


best of understanding. And I was beginning to think that a” 


250 RICHARD CARVEL 







THE PART HORATIO PLAYED 251 


suspicion was at the bottom of her questions. She gave her 
head an impatient fling, and, as I feared, appealed to John 
Paul. 

“Perhaps you can tell me, captain, why he did not come to 
his friends in his trouble.”’ 5 

And despite my signals to him he replied:— 

“In truth, my dear lady, he haunted the place for a sight 
of you, from the moment he set foot in London.”’ 

Comyn laughed, and I felt the blood rise to my face, 
and kicked john Paul viciously. Dolly retained her self- 10 
possession. 

“Pho!” says she; “for a sight of me! You seamen are all 
alike. For a sight of me! And you had not strength enough 
to lift a knocker, sit,—you who can raise a man from the 
ground with one hand?’ I5 

“Twas before his tailor had prepared him, madam, and he 
feared to disgrace you,” the captain gravely continued, and [ 
perceived how futile it were to attempt to stop him. “And 
afterward—” 

“And afterward!” repeated Dorothy, leaning forward. 20 

“And afterward he went to Arlington Street with Mr. Dix 
to seek Mr. Manners, that he might be identified before that 
ee And there he encountered Mr. Manners and his 

race of Something.” 

“Chartersea,” put in Comyn, who had been listening 25 
@aperly.  '' 

“Getting out of a coach,” said the captain. 

“When was this?” demanded Dorothy of me, interrupting 
him. Her voice was steady, but the colour had left her face. 
| About three weeks ago.”’ 30 

“Please be exact, Richard.” 

“Well, if you must,” said I, “the day was Tuesday, and 
Hite time about half an hour after two.’ 

_ She said nothing for a while, trying to put down an agita- 
tion which was beginning to show itself in spite of her effort. 35 
As for me, I was almost wishing myself back in the sponging- 


." 


252 RICHARD CARVEL 


‘Are you sure my father saw you?” she asked presently. 

“As clearly as you do now, Dolly,” I said. 

“But your clothes? He might have gone by you in such.” 

“T pray that he did, Dorothy,” I replied. But I was wholly 

5 convinced that Mr. Manpers had recognized me. 

“* And—and what did he say?” she asked. 

For she had the rare courage that never shrinks from the 
truth. I think I have never admired and pitied her as at that 
moment. 

10 “He said to the footman,”’ J answered, resolved to go 
through with it now, “ “Give the man a shilling.’ That was his 
Grace’s suggestion.” 

My Lord uttered something very near an oath. And she 
spoke not a word more until I handed her out in Arlington 

rs Street. The rest of us were silent, too, Comyn now and again 
giving me eloquent glances expressive of what he would say if 
she were not present; the captain watching her with a furtive 
praise, and he vowed to me afterward she was never so beau- 
tiful as when angry, that he loved her as an avenging Diana. 

20 But I was uneasy, and when I stood alone with her before 
the house I begged her not to speak to her father of the 
episode. 

“Nay, he must be cleared of such an imputation, Richard,” 
she answered proudly. “‘He may have made mistakes, but I 

25 feel sure he would never turn you away when you came to 
him in trouble—you, the grandson of his old friend, Lionel 
Carvel.” 

“Why bother over matters that are past and gone? [| 
would have borne an hundred such trials to have you come to 

30 Me as you came to-day, Dorothy. And I shall surely see you 
again,’ I said, trying to speak lightly; “and your mother, to 
whom you will present my respects, before I sail for America.” 

She looked up at me, startled. 

“Before you sail for America!’ she exclaimed, i in a tone 

35 that made me thrill at once with joy and sadness. “And are 
you not, then, to see London now you are here?” 

“Are you never coming back, Dolly?’ I whispered; fori 





THE PART HORATIO PLAYED 263 


feared Mr. Marmaduke might appear at any moment; “‘or do 
you wish to remain in England always?” 

For an instant I felt her pressure on my hand, and then she 
had fled into the house, leaving me standing by the steps look- 
ing after her. Comyn’s voice ‘aroused me. 

“To the Star and Garter!’’ I heard him command, and on 
the way to Pall Mall he ceased not to rate Mr. Manherg with 
more vigour than propriety. ‘I never liked the little cur, 
d—n him! No one likes him, Richard,” he declared. “All 
the town knows how Chartersea threw a bottle at him, and 10 
were it not for his daughter he had long since been put out of 
White’s. Were it not for Miss Dolly I would call him out for 
this cowardly trick, and then publish him.” 

“Nay, my Lord, I had held that as my aren ’ inter-= 
rupted the captain, “were it not, as you say, for Miss Man-1s 
ners. 

His Lordship shot a glance at John Paul somewhat divided 
between surprise, resentment, and amusement. 

“Now you have seen the daughter, captain, you perceive it 
is impossible,’ I hastened to interpose. 20 

“How in the name of lineage did she come to have such 
a father?’ Comyn went on. “I thank Heaven he’s not mine. 
He’s not fit to be her lackey. I would sooner twenty times 
have a profligate like my Lord Sandwich for a parent than a 
milk and water sop like Manners, who will risk nothing over 25 
a crown piece at play or a guinea at Newmarket. By G—, 
Richard,” said his Lordship, bringing his fist against the glass 
with near force enough to break the pane, “I have a notion 
why he did not choose to see you that day. Why, he has no 
more blood than a louse!’’ 30 

I had come to the guess as soon as he, but I dared not give 
F voice, nor anything but ridicule. And so we came to the 
hotel, the red of departing day fading in the sky above the 
Baoced house-line in St. James’s Street. 

It was a very different reception we got than when we had 35 
lest come there. You, my dears, who live in this Republic: 
‘can have no notion of the stir and bustle caused by the arrival 


254 RICHARD CARVEL 


of Horace Walpole’s carriage at a fashionable hotel, at a time 
when every innkeeper was versed in the arms of every family 
of note in the three kingdoms. Our friend the chamberlain 
was now humility itself, and fairly ran in his eagerness to 
5 anticipate Comyn’s demands. It was “Yes, my Lord,” and 
“To be sure, your Lordship,” every other second, and he seized 
the first occasion to make me an elaborate apology for his 
former cold conduct, assuring me that had our honours been 
pleased to divulge the fact that we had friends in London, 
ro such friends as my Lord Comyn and Mr. Walpole, whose great 
father he had once had the distinction to serve as linkman, all 
would have been well. And he was desiring me particularly 
to comprehend that he had been acting under most disagrees 
able orders when he sent for the bailiff, before I cut him short. 
ts We were soon comfortably installed:in our old rooms; Co- 
myn had sent post-haste for Davenport, who chanced to be his 
own tailor, and for the whole army of auxiliaries indispensa= 
ble to a gentleman’s make-up; and Mr. Dix was notified that 
his Lordship would recerve him at eleven on_ the following 
20morning, in my rooms. J remembered the faithful Banks 
with a twinge of gratitude, and sent for him. And John Paul 
and [, having been duly installed in the clothes made for us, 
all three of us sat down merrily to such a supper as only the 
cook of the Star and Garter, who had been chef to the Comte 
2s de Maurepas, could prepare. Then I begged Comyn to ce 
the story of our rescue, which I burned to hear. 

“Why, Richard,” said he, filling his glass, “had you run 
afoul any other man in London, save perchance Selwyn, you’ 
have been drinking the bailiff’s triple-diluted for a month to 

30 come. I never ete such a brace of fools as he and Horry 















the wonder was that Horry told this as straight as he did. 
He has written it to all his friends on the Continent, and had 
he not been in dock with the gout ever since he reached tow 


THE PART HORATIO PLAYED 2565 


it caught Horry’s eye through the window, as you got out of 
the chaise, and down he came as fast as he could hobble. 

“Horry had a little dinner to-day in Arlington Street, 
where he lives, and Miss Dorothy was there. I have told you, 
Richard, there has been no sensation in town equal to that of s 
your Maryland beauty, since Lady Sarah Lennox. You may 
have some notion of the old beau Horry can be when he tries, 
and he is.over-fond of Miss Dolly—she puts him in mind of 
some canvas or other of Sir Peter’s. He vowed he had been 
saving this piece de résistance, as he was pleased to call it, 10 
expressly for her, since it had to do somewhat with Mary- 
land. ‘What d’ye think I met at Windsor, Miss Manners?’ 
he cries, before we had begun the second course. 

“ ‘Perhaps a repulse from his Majesty,’ says Dolly promptly. 

“ ‘Nay,’ says Mr. Walpole, making a face, for he hates a1s 
laugh at his cost; ‘nothing less than a young American giant, 
with the attire of Dr. Benjamin Franklin and the manner of 
the Fauxbourg Saint Germain. But he had a whiff of deer 
leather about him, and shoulders and back and legs to make 
his fortune at Hockley in the Hole, had he lived two genera- 20 
tions since. And he had with him a strange, Scotch sea-cap- 
tain, who had rescued him from pirates, bless you, no less. 
That is, he said he was a sea-captain; but he talked French 
like a Parisian, and quoted Shakespeare like Mr. Burke or 
Dr. Johnson. He may have been M. Caron de Beaumarchais, 25 
for I never saw him, or a soothsayer, or Cagliastro the magi- 
cian, for he guessed my name.’ 

“‘Guessed your name!’ we cried, for the story was out of 
the ordinary. 

“<Tust that,’ answered he, and repeated some damned verse 30 
I never heard, with Horatio in it, and made them all laugh.” 
~ John Paul and I looked at each other in astonishment, and 
‘we, too, laughed heartily. It was indeed an odd coincidence. 
His Lordship continued :— 

4% ‘Well, be that as it may,’ said Horry, ‘he was an able man 35 
of sagacity, this sea-captain, and, like many another, had a 
enchant for being a gentleman. But he was more of an 


256 RICHARD CARVEL a 


oddity than Hertford’s beast of Gevaudan, and was dressed 
like Salvinio, the monkey my Lord Holland brought back 
from his last Italian tour.’ ” 
I have laughed over this description since, my dears, and 
sso has John Paul. But at that time I saw nothing funny in 
it, and winced with him when Comyn repeated it with such 
brutal unconsciousness. However, young Englishmen of birth 
and wealth of that day were not apt to consider the feelings 
of those they deemed below them. 
tro “Come to your story, Comyn,” I cut in testily. 
But his Lordship missed entirely the cause of my dial | 
pleasure. 
“Listen to him!” he exclaimed good-naturedly. “He will 
hear of ncthing but Miss Dolly. Well, Richard, my lad, you” 
rs Should have seen her as Horry went on to tell that you had 
been taken from Maryland, with her head forward and her 
lips parted, and a light in those eyes of hers to make a man 
fall down and worship. For Mr. Lloyd, or some one in your 
Colony, had written of your disappearance, and I vow Miss 
20 Dorothy has not been the same since. Nor have I been the 
only one to remark it,” said he, waving off my natural pro- 
test at such extravagance. “We have talked of you more than 
once, she and I, and mourned you for dead. But I am off 
my course again, as we sailors say, captain. Horry was de-) 
25 scribing how Richard lifted little Goble by one hand and spun 
all the dignity out of him, when Miss Manners broke in, being ; 
able to contain herself no longer. | 
“*An American, Mr. Walpole, and from Maryland?’ shel 
demanded. And the way she said it made them all look at her. — 
30 «6 SAssurément, mademotselle, replied Horry, in his cursed 
French; ‘and perhaps you know him. He would gladden the i 
heart a6 Frederick of Prussia, for he stands six and three if an ; 
inch. I took such a fancy to the lad that I invited him to sup~ 
with me, and he gave me back a message fit for Mr. Wilkes to™ 
3s send to his Majesty, as haughty as you choose, that if I de- 
sired him I must have his friend in the bargain. You Ameri- 
cans are the very devil for independence, Miss Manners! ’Ods 






THE PART HORATIO PLAYED 287 


fish, I liked his spirit so much I had his friend, Captain some- 
thing or other—’ and there he stopped, caught Miss Man- 
ners’s appearance, for she was very white. 

“<The name is Richard Carvel!’ she cried. 

““T lay a thousand it was!’ I shouted, rising in my chair. 5’ 
And the company stared, and Lady Pembroke vowed I had 
gone mad. 

““Bless me, bless me, here’s a romance for certain!’ cried 
Horry; ‘it throws my ‘Castle of Otranto” in the shade’ 
(“that’s some damned book he has written,’’ Comyn inter- 10 
jected). “‘You may not believe me, Richard, when | say that 
Miss Dolly ate but little after that, and her colour came and 
went like the red of a stormy sunset at sea. ‘Here’s this dog 
Richard come to spill all our chances,’ I swore to myself. The 
company had been prodigiously entertained by the tale, and 15 
clamoured for more, and when Horry had done I told how 
you had fought me at Annapolis, and had saved my life. But 
Miss Manners sat very still, biting her lip, and I knew she 
was sadly vexed that you had not gone to her in Arlington 
Street. For a woman will reason HAs > said his Lordship, 20 
winking wisely. “But I more than suspected something to 
have happened, so | asked Horry to send his fellow Favre over 
to the Star and Garter to see if you were there, tho’ I was of 
three minds to let you go to the devil. You should have seen 
her face when he came back to say that you had been for three 25 
weeks in a Castle Yard sponging-house! Then Horry said he 
would lend me his coach, and when it was brought around 
Miss Manners took our breaths by walking downstairs and 
into it, nor would she listen to a word of the objections cried 
by my Lady Pembroke and the rest. You must know there 30 
is no stopping the beauty when she has made her mind. And 
while they were all chattering on the steps I jumped in, and 
off we drove, and you will be ‘the most talked-of man in Lon- 
don to-morrow. I give you Miss Manners!”’ cried his Lord- 
Pip as he ended. 35 

We all stood to the toast, I with my blood a-tingle and my 
a awhirl, so that I scarce knew what I did. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


IN WHICH I AM SORE TEMPTED 


*Wuo the devil is this John Paul, and what is to become 
of him?” asked Comyn, as I escorted him downstairs to a 
chair. ‘“You must give him two hundred pounds, or a thous 
sand, if you like, and let him get out. He can’t be coming 

5 to the clubs with you.” | 

And he pulled me into the coffee room after him. . 

“You don’t understand the man, Comyn,” said I; “he isn’t 
that kind, I tell you. What he has done for me is out of 
friendship, as he says, and he wouldn’t touch a farthing save 

ro What I owe him.” 

“Cursed if he isn’t a rum sea-captain,”’ he answered, shrug 
ging his shoulders; “cursed if I ever ran foul of one yet who 
would refuse a couple of hundred and call quits. What’s he 
to dof Is he to live like a Lord of the Treasury upon a mas- 

1s ters savings!” 

“Jack,” said I, soberly, resolved not to be angry, “I would 
willingly be cast back in Castle Yard to-night rather than 
desert him, who might have deserted me twenty times to his 
advantage. Mr. Carvel has not wealth enough, nor I grati- 

20 tude enough, to reward him. But if our family can make his 
fortune, it shall be made. And I am determined to go with 
him to America by the first packet I can secure.’ 

He clutched my arm with an earnestness to startle me. 

“You must not leave England now,” he said. 

2s “Any why?” 

i pee she will marry Chartersea if you do. And rake 
my oath upon it, you alone can save her from that.” 

“Nonsense!” I exclaimed, but my breath caught sharply ; 

“Listen, Richard. Mr. Manin s manoeuvres are the call 


258 


IN WHICH I AM SORE TEMPTED 259 


of the town, and the beast of a duke is forever wining and 
dining in Arlington Street. At first people ridiculed, now 
they are giving credit. It is said,” he whispered fearfully, 
®t is said that his Grace has got Mr. Manners in his power, 
—some question of honour, you understand, which will ruin 5 
him,—and that even now the duke is in a position to force the 
marriage.” 

He leaned forward and searched me with his keen gray 
eyes, as tho’ watching the effect of the intelligence upon me. 

I was, indeed, stunned. ro 

“Now, had she refused me fifty times instead of only 
twice,” my Lord continued, “I could not wish her such a fate 
as that vicious scoundrel. And since she will not have me, | 
would rather it were you than any man alive. For she loves 
you, Richard, as surely as the world is turning.” rs 

“Oh, no!” I replied passionately; “you are deceived by 
the old liking she has always had for me since we were chil- 
dren together.” I was deeply touched by his friendship. “But 
tell me how that could affect this marriage with Chartersea. I 
believe her pride capable of any sacrifice for the family honour.” 20 

He made a gesture of impatience that knocked over a 
candlestick. 

“There, curse you, there you are again!” he said, “show- 
ing how little you' know of women and of their pride. If she 
were sure that you loved her, she would never marry Char- 25 
tersea or anyone else. She has had near the whole of Lon- 
don at her feet, and toyed with it. Now she has been amusing 
herself with Charles Fox, but I vow she cares for none of 
them. Titles, fame, estates, will not move her.” 

“Tf she were sure that I loved her!’’ I repeated, dazed by 30 
what he was saying. ‘How you are talking, Comyn!” 

“Just that. Ah, how I know her, Richard! She can be 
reckless beyond notion. And, if it were proved to her that 
you were in love with Miss Swain, the barrister’s daughter 
over whom we were said to have fought, she would as soon 35 
marry Chartersea, or March, or the devil, to show you how 
little she cared.” 


2 


260 RICHARD’ CARVEL . q 

“With Patty Swain!” I exclaimed. 

“But if she knew you did not care a rope’s end for Patty, 
Mr. Marmaduke and his reputation might go into exile to- 
gether,” he continued, without heeding. “So much for a 

5 woman’s pride, I say. The day the news of your disappear 
ance arrived, Richard, she was starting out with a party to 
visit Lord Carlisle’s seat, Castle Howard. Not a step would 
she stir, though Mr. Marmaduke whined and coaxed and 
threatened. And | swear to you she has never been the same 

ro since, though few but I know why. I might tell you more, 
my lad, were it not a breach of confidence.” 

“Then don’ t,’ I said; for I would not let my feelings run. 

““Egad, then, I will!’ he cried impetuously, “for the end 
justifies j it. You must know that, after the letter came from 

153 Mr. Lloyd, we thought you dead. I could never get her to 
speak of you until a fortnight ago. We both had gone with 4 
party to see Wanstead and dine at the Spread Eagle upon the 
Forest, and I stole her away from the company and led her 
out under the trees. My God, Richard, how beautiful she 

20 was in the wood with the red in her cheeks and the wind 
blowing her black hair! For the second time I begged her to 
be Lady Comyn. Fool that I was, I thought she wavered, and 
my heart beat as it never will again. Then, as she furhel 
away, from her hand slipped a little gold-bound purse, and 

25 as I picked it up a clipping from a newspaper fluttered out. 
*Pon my soul, it was that very scandalous squib of the Mary- 
land Gazette about our duel! I handed it back with a bow. 
I dared not look up at her face, but stood with my eyes on 
the ground, waiting. 

36 ‘Lord Comyn,’ says she, presently, with a quiver in hell 
voice, “before I give you a reply you must first answer, on 
your word as a gentleman, what I ask you.’ 

“T bowed again. 

“Ts it true that Richard Carvel was in love with Mis 

35 Swain?’ she asked.”’ : 

“And you said, Comy ny” I broke in, unable longer to con= 
tain myself, “you said—” 





| 





IN WHICH I AM SORE ‘TEMPTED 261 


*T-said: ‘Dorothy, if I were to die to-morrow, I would 
swear Richard Carvel loved you, and you only.’ ” 

His Lordship had spoken with that lightness which hides 
only the deepest emotion. 

“And she refused you?” I cried. “Oh, surely not fors 
that!”’ 

“ And she did well,” said my Lord. 

I bowed my head on my arms, for I had gone through a 
great deal that day, and this final example of Comyn’s gen- 
erosity overwhelmed me. Then I felt his hand laid kindly on ro 
my shoulder, and I rose up and seized it. His eyes were dim, 


jas were mine. 
“ And now, will you go to Maryland and be a fool?” asked 


his Lordship. 

_ Lhesitated, sadly torn between duty and inclination. Johns 
Paul could, indeed, go to America without me. Next the 
thought came over me in a flash that my grandfather might be 
ill, or even dead, and there would be no one to receive the 
captain. I knew he would never consent to spend the season 
at the Star and Garter at my expense. And then the image 20 
of the man rose before me, of him who had given me all he 
owned, and gone with me so cheerfully to prison, though he 
knew me not from the veriest adventurer and impostor. | 
was undecided no longer. 

“T must go, Jack,” I said sadly; “as God judges, I must.” 25 

He looked at me queerly, as if | were beyond his compre- 
hension, picked up his hat, called out that he would see me in 
the morning, and was gone. 

I went slowly upstairs, threw off my clothes mechanically, 
and tumbled into bed. The captain had long been asleep. 30 
By the exertion of all the will power I could command, [ was 
able gradually to think more and more soberly, and the more 
I thought, the more absurd, impossible, it seemed that Lae 
rough provincial not yet of age, should possess the heart of a 
beauty who had but to choose from the best of all England. 35 
An hundred times I went over the scene of poor Comyn’s pro- 
a ; aes ° 
/ nay, saw it vividly, as though the whole of it had been 

















262 RICHARD CARVEL a | 


acted before me, and as I became calmer, the plainer I per- 
ceived that Dorothy, thinking me dead, was willing to let 
Comyn believe that she had loved me, and had so eased the 
soreness of her refusal. Perhaps, in truth, a sentiment had 
5 sprung up in her breast when she heard of my disappearance, 
which she mistook for love. But surely the impulse that sent 
her to Castle Yard was not the same as that Comyn had de 
picted: it was merely the survival of the fancy of a little girl 
in a grass-stained frock, who had romped on the lawn at Car- 
ro Vel Hall. I sighed as | remembered the sun and the flowers 
and the blue Chesapeake, and recalled the very toss of her 
head when she had said she would marry nothing less than a 
duke. 
Alas, Dolly, perchance it was to be nothing more than a 
13duke! The bloated face and beady eyes and the bread 
crooked back I had seen that day in Arlington Street rose 
before me,—I should know his Grace of Chartersea again were 
I to meet him in purgatory. Was it, indeed, possible that I 
could prevent her marriage with this man? I fell asleep, re 
20 peating the query, as the dawn was sifting through the blinds. 
I awakened late. Banks was already there to dress me, to 
congratulate me as discreetly as a well-trained servant should; 
nor did he remind me of the fact that he had offered to lend 
me money, for which omission I liked him the better. In the 
25 parlour | found the captain sipping his chocolate and reading 
his morning Chronicle, as though all his life he had done 
nothing else. a 
“Good morning, captain.” And fetching him a lick on the 
back that nearly upset his bowl, I cried as heartily as I could: 
30 Egad, if our luck holds, we'll be sailing before the week is 
out.” | 
But he looked troubled. He hemmed and hawed, and 
finally broke out into Scotch:— 4 
“Indeed, laddie, ye’ll no be leaving Miss Dorothy for me.” 
3s ‘What nonsense has Comyn put into your head?” IJ de 
manded, with a stitch in my side; “I am no more to Miss 
Manners than—” 










IN WHICH I AM SORE TEMPTED 263 


“Than John Paul! Faith, ye’ll not make me believe that. 
Ah, Richard,” said he, “ye’re a sly dog. You and I have been 
as thick these twa months as men can well live, and never a 
vord out of you of the most sublime creature that walks. | 
Wave seen women in many countries, lad, beauties to set 5 
thoughts afire and swords a-play,—and ’tis not her beauty 
lone. She hath a spirit for a queen to covet, and air and 
sarriage, too.” 

This eloquent harangue left me purple. 

“J grant it all, captain. She has but to choose her title and 10 
state.” 

“Ay, and I have a notion which she’ll be choosing.” 

“The knowledge is worth a thousand pounds at the least,” 
teplied. “I will lend you the sum, and warrant no lack of 
akers.”’ 15 

“Now the devil fly off with such temperament! And I had 
talf the encouragement she has given you, I would cast anchor 
m the spot, and they might hang and quarter me to move me. 
Sut I know you well,” he exclaimed, his manner changing, 
“you are making this great sacrifice on my account. And [ 20 
vill not be a drag on your pleasures, Richard, or stand in the 
vay of your prospects.” 

“Captain Paul,” I said, sitting down beside him, “have I 
eserved this from you? Have I shown a desire to desert you 
ow that my fortunes have changed? I have said that you 25 
hall taste-of our cheer at Carvel Hall, and have looked for- 
rard this long while to the time when I shall take you to my 
randfather and say: ‘Mr. Carvel, this is he whose courage 
nd charity have restored you to me, and me to you.’ And he 
all have changed mightily if you do not have the best in 30 
faryland. Should you wish to continue on the sea, you shall 
ave the Belle of the Wye, launched last year. ’Tis time Cap- 
un Elliott took to his pension.” 

|The captain sighed, and a gleam I did not understand came 
ito his dark eyes. , 

Poll would that God had given me your character and your 

art, Richard,” he said, “in place of this striving thing I 











35 


: 


264 RICHARD CARVEL 
have within me. But ’tis written that a leopard cannot 
change his spots.” : 


‘The passage shall be booked this day,’ I said. 

That morning was an eventful one. Comyn arrived firs 

s dressed in a suit of mauve French cloth that set off his fine 

figure to great advantage. He regarded me keenly as he en- 

tered, as if to discover whether I had changed my mind over 
night. And I saw he was not in the best of tempers. 

“And when do you sail?”’ he cried. “T have no doubt you 

10 have sent out already to get passage.” 

“T have been trying to persuade Mr. Carvel to remain in 
London, my Lord,” said the captain, “T tell him he is leaving 
his best interests behind him.” 

“T fear that for once you have undertaken a task beyond 

15 your ability, Captain Paul,” was the rather tart reply. . 

“The captain has a ridiculous idea that heas the cause of 
my going,” I said quickly. 

John Paul rose somewhat abruptly, seized his hat and 
bowed to his Lordship, and in the face of a rain sallied out, 

20 remarking that he had as yet seen nothing of the city. 

“Jack, you must do me the favour not to talk of this in 
John Paul’s presence,” I said, when the door had closed. 

“If he doesn’t suspect why you are going, he has more stu- 
pidity than I gave him credit for,’ Comyn answered grufily. 

25 ‘I fear he does suspect,” I said. 

His Lordship went to the table and began to write, leaving 
me to the Chronicle, the pages of which I[ did not see. Then 
came Mr. Dix, and such a change I had never beheld in mor 
tal man. In place of the would-be squire I had encountered 

30in Threadneedle Street, here was an unctuous person of bust 

ness in sober gray; but he still wore the hypocritical smirk 

with no joy in it. His bow was now all respectful obedience 
Comyn acknowledged it with a curt nod. 

Mr. Dix began smoothly, where a man of more hone 

35 would have found the going difficult. - 

“Mr. Carvel,” he said, rubbing his hands, “I wish first t 


express my profound regrets for what has happened.” 


ee 






IN WHICH I AM SORE TEMPTED 265 


“Curse your regrets,” said Comyn, bluntly. ‘‘You come 
here on business. Mr. Carvel does not stand in need of re- 
grets at present.” 

“T was but on the safe side of Mr. Carvel’s money, my 
Lord.” 5 
“Ay, Vl warrant you are always on the safe side of 
money,’ replied Comyn, witha laugh. “What I wish to know, 
Mr. Dix,” he continued, “‘is whether you are willing to take 
my word that this is Mr. Richard Carvel, the grandson ee 
heir of Lionel Carvel, Esquire, of Carvel Hall in Maryland?’ x 

“Tam your Lordship’ s most obedient servant,” said Mr. Dix. 

“Confound you, sir! Can you or can you not answer a 
simple question?’ 

Mr. Dix straightened. He may have spoken elsewhere of 
asserting his dignity. 15 

“1 would not presume to doubt your Lordship’s word.” 

“Then, if I were to be personally responsible for such sums 
as Mr. Carvel may need, I suppose you would be willing to 
advance them to him.” 

“Willingly, willingly, my Lord,” said Mr. Dix, and added 20 
immediately: “ Your Lordship will not object to putting that 
in writing? Merely a matter of form, as your Lordship 
knows, but we men of affairs are held to a strict account- 
ability.” 

Comyn made a movement of disgust, took up a pen and 2; 
wrote out the indorsement. 

“There,” he said. “‘You men of affairs will at least never 
die of starvation.” 

_ Mr. Dix took the paper with a low bow, began to shower me 
with protestations of his fidelity to my grandfather’s inter- 30 
ests, which were one day to be my own,—he hoped, with me, 
not soon,—drew from his pocket more than sufhcient for my 
immediate wants, said that I should have more by a trusty 
Messenger, and was going on to clear himself of his former 
neglect and indifference, when Banks announced :-— 35 
“His honour, Mr. Manners!” 

Comyn and I exchanged glances, and his Lordship gave a 


2 


266 RICHARD CARVEL a ' 


low whistle. Nor was the circumstance without its effect upon 
Mr. Dix. With my knowledge of the character of Dorothy’s 
father I might have foreseen this visit, which came, neverthe- 
less, as a complete surprise. For a moment I hesitated, and 
5 then made a motion to show him up. Comyn voiced my 
decision. 
“Why let the little cur stand in the way?!” he said; “he 
‘counts for nothing.” 
Mr. Marmaduke was not long in ascending, and tripped 
rointo the room as Mr. Dix backed out of i it, as gayly as tho’ 
he had never sent me about my business in the street. His 
clothes, of a cherry cut velvet, were as ever a little beyond the 
fashion, and he carried something I had never before seen, 
then used by the extreme dandies in London,—an umbrella. 
rs “What! Richard Carvel! Is it possible?” he screamed im 
his piping voice. ‘‘We mourned you for dead, and here you 
turn up in London alive and well, and bigger and stronger 
than ever. Oons! one need not go to Scripture for miracles, 
I shall write my congratulations to Mr. Carvel this day, sir.” 
20 And he pushed his fingers into my waistcoat, so that Comyn 
and | were near to laughing in his face. For it was impossible 
to be angry with a little coxcomb of such pitiful intelligence. 
“Ah, good morning, my Lord. I see your Lordship has 
risen early in the same good cause,—I myself am up two 
2s hours before my time. You will pardon the fuss | am mak 
ing over the lad, Comyn, but his grandfather is my very dear 
friend, and Richard was brought up with my daughter, Doro- 
thy. They were like brother and sister. What, Richard, you 
will not take my hand! Surely you are not so unreasonable 
30 as to hold against me that unfortunate circumstance in Ar 
lington Street! Yes, Dorothy has shocked me. She has 
told me of it.” 4 
Comyn winked at me as I replied:— 
“We shan’t mention it, Mr. Manners. I have had my three 
35 weeks 1 in prison, and perhaps know the world all the better for 
them.” B 
He held up his umbrella in mock dismay, and stumbled ab- 







IN WHICH I AM SORE TEMPTED 267 


ruptly into a chair. There he sat looking at me, a whimsical 
uneasiness on his face. 

“We shall indeed mention it, sir. Three weeks in prison, 
to think of it! And you would not so much as send me a line. 
Ah, Richard, pride is a good thing, but I sometimes think we 5s 
from Maryland have too much of it. We shall indeed speak 
of the matter. Out of justice to me you must understand how 
fit occurred. You must know that I am deucedly absent- 
minded, and positively lost without my glass. And I had 
somebody with me, so Dorothy said. Chartersea, I believe. 10 
‘And his Grace made me think you were a cursed beggar. I 
| 
| 
| 









make a point never to have to do with ’em.” 

“You are right, Mr. Manners,” Comyn cut in dryly; “for I 
have known them to be so persistently troublesome, when once 
encouraged, as to interfere seriously with our arrangements.” 15 

“Eh!” Mr. Manners ejaculated, and then came to an ab- 
upt pause, while I wondered whether the shot had ‘told. To 
telieve him I inquired after Mrs. Manners’s health. 

“Ah, to be sure,” he replied, beginning to fumble in his 
skirts; “London agrees with her remarkably, and she is better 20 
than she has been for years. And she is overjoyed at your 
most wonderful escape, Richard, as are we all.” 

And he gave mea note. | concealed my eagerness as I took 
it and broke the seal, to discover that it was not from Dorothy, 
put from Mrs. Manners herself. 25 


“My dear Richard” (so it ran), “I thank God with your 
dear Grandfather over y’r Deliverance, & you must bring y’r 
Deliverer, whom Dorothy describes as Courtly and Gentle- 
manly despite his Calling, to dine with us this very Day, that 
we may express to him our Gratitude. I know you are far too 30 
Sensible not to come to Arlington Street. I subscribe myself, 
Richard, y’r sincere Friend, 






















“MARGARET MANNERS.” 


There was not so much as a postscript from Dolly, as I had 
1oped. But the letter was whole-souled, like Mrs. Manners, 35. 
d breathed the affection she had always had for me. I hon- 


268 RICHARD CARVEL \- 
oured her the more that she had not attempted to excuse Mr. 
Manners’s conduct. "I 

“You will come, Richard?”’ cried Mr. Marmaduke, with an 
attempt at heartiness. “ You must come, and the captain, too, 
s For I hear, with regret, that you are not to be long with us.” 
I caught another significant look from Comyn from between 
the window curtains. But I accepted for myself, and condi- 
tionally for John Paul. Mr. Manners rose to take his leave. 
“Dorothy will be glad to see you,” he said. “I often think, 

10 Richard, that she tires of these generals and King’s ministers, 
and longs for a romp at Wilmot House again. Alas,” he 
sighed, offering us a pinch of snuff (which he said was the 
famous Number 37), “‘alas, she has had a deal too much of 
attention, with his Grace of Chartersea and a dozen others 

1g wild to marry her. I fear she will go soon,” and he sighed 
again. “Upon my soul I cannot make her out. I’ll lay some- 
thing handsome, my Lord, that the madcap adventure with 
you after Richard sets the gossips going. One day she is like 
a schoolgirl, and I blame myself for not taking her mothers’ 

20 advice to send her to Mrs. Terry, at Campden House; and 
the next, egad, she is as difficult to approach as a crowned 
head. Well, gentlemen, I give you good day, I have an ap 
pointment at White’s. I am happy to see you have fallen im 
good hands, Richard. My Lord, your most obedient! | 

25 “He'll lay something handsome!” said my Lord, when the 
door had closed behind him. | 





29 





| CHAPTER XXVIII 


ARLINGTON STREET 


_ Tue sun having come out, and John Paul not returning by 
‘two,—being ogling, I supposed, the ladies in Hyde Park,—I 
left him a message and betook myself with as great trepidation 
‘as ever to Dorothy’ s house. The door was opened by the iden- 
‘tieal footman who had so insolently offered me money, and | 
think he recognized me, for he backed away as he told me the 
ladies were not at home. But I had not gone a dozen paces in 


5 


my disappointment when I heard him running after me, ask- | 


ing if my honour were Mr. Richard Carvel. 
_ “The ladies will see your honour,” he said, and conducted 
‘me back into the house and up the wide stairs. -[ had heard 
‘that Arlington Street was known as the street of the King’s 
ministers, and I surmised that Mr. Manners had rented this 
house, and its furniture, from some great man who had gone 
‘out of office, plainly a person of means and taste. The hall, 
like that of many of the great town-houses, was in semi- 
‘darkness, but I remarked that the stair railing was of costly 
jron-work and polished brass; and, as I went up, that the 
stone niches in the wall were filled with the busts of states- 
men, and [ recognized among these that of the great Wal- 
pole. A great copper-gilt chandelier hung above. But the 
Picture of the drawing-room I was led into, with all its colours, 
remains in the eye of my mind to this day. It was a‘large 
toom, the like of which I had never seen in any private rest- 
dence of the New World, situated in the back of the house. 
Its balcony overlooked the fresh expanse of the Green Park. 
Upon its high ceiling floated Venus and the graces, by 
ucchi; and the mantel, upon which ticked an antique and 
curious French clock, was carved marble. On the gilt panels 


' 269 
} 4 
| 





4 


270 RICHARD CARVEL Ww 


of the walls were wreaths of red roses. At least a half-dozell 
tall mirrors, framed in rococos, were placed about, the largest 
taking the space between the two high windows on the park 
side. And underneath it stood a gold cabinet, lacquered by 
5 Martin’s inimitable hand, in the centre of which was sé 
a medallion of porcelain, with the head in dark blue of his 
Majesty, Charles the First. The chairs and lounges were 
marquetry,—satin-wood and mahogany,—with seats and 
backs of blue brocade. The floor was polished to the 

1o degree of danger, and on the walls hung a portrait by Van 
Dyck, another, of a young girl, by Richardson, a lands 
scape by the Dutch artist Ruysdael, and a water-colour by 
Zaccarelli. 

I had lived for four months the roughest of lives, and the 
is room brought before me so sharply the contrast between m a | 
estate and the grandeur and elegance in which Dorothy live 

that my spirits fell as I looked about me. In front of me was 
a vase of flowers, and beside them on the table lay a note “To 
Miss Manners, in Arlington Street,” and sealed with a ducal 

2ocrest. I was unconsciously turning it over, when something 
impelled me to look around. There, erect in the doorway, 
stood Dolly, her eyes so earnestly fixed upon me that] 
dropped the letter with a start. A faint colour mounted to her 
crown of black hair. 

25 ‘And so you have come, Richard,” she said. Her voice 
was low, and fas there was no anger in it, the tone seemed 
that of reproach. I wondered w hether she thought the less of 
me for coming. 

“Can you blame me for wishing to see you before I cath 

30 Dolly?” I cried, and crossed quickly over to her. 

But she drew a step backward. : 
“Then it is true that you are going,’ ’ said she, this time wi 
a plain note of coldness. . 
“T must, Dorothy.” 

35 “When?” 

““As soon as I can get passage.” ; 
She passed me and seated herself on the lounge, leaving 





ARLINGTON STREET 271 


to stand like a lout before her, ashamed of my youth and of 
the clumsiness of my great body. 

“Ah, Richard,” she laughed, “confess to your old play- 
mate! T should like to know how many young men of wealth 
and family would give up the pleasures of a London season 
were there not a strong attraction in Maryland.” 

_ How I longed to tell her that I would give ten years of my 

life to remain in England: that duty to John Paui took me 
home. But I was dumb. 
: “We should make a macaroni of you to amaze our colony,” 
said Dolly, lightly, as I sat down a great distance away; “‘to 
accept my schooling were to double your chances when you 
return, Richard. You should have cards to everything, and 
my Lord Comyn or Mr. Fox or some one would introduce you 
at the clubs. I vow you would be a sensation, with your 
height and figure. You should meet all the beauties of Eng- 
land, and perchance,” she added mischievously, “perchance 
you might be taking one home with you.” 

“Nay, Dolly,’ I answered; “I am not your match in 
jesting.”’ 7 

“Jesting!”’ she exclaimed, “I was never more sober. But 
where is your captain?” 

I said that I hoped that John Paul would be there shortly. 

“How fanciful he is! And his conversation,—one might 
think he had acquired the art at Marly or in the Fauxbourg. 
In truth, he should have been born on the far side of the Chan- 
nel. And he has the air of the great man,” said she, glancing 
up at me, covertly. “For my part, I prefer a little more 
bluntness.” 


S 


Lal 


° 


20 


25 


’ I was nettled at the speech. Dorothy had ever been quick 30 


to seize upon and ridicule the vulnerable oddities of a char- 
acter, and she had all the contempt of the great lady for those 
who iried to scale by pleasing arts. I perceived with regret 
that she had taken a prejudice. 


} fet here; Dorothy,” I cried, “not even you shall talk so of 35 


the captain. For you have seen him at his worst. There are 
F many, I warrant you, born like him a poor gardener’s son 


272 RICHARD CARVEL 


who rise by character and ability to be a captain at three and 
twenty. And he will be higher yet. He has never attended 
any but a parish school, and still has learning to astonish Mr. 
Walpole, learning which he got under vast difficulties. He is 
5a gentleman, I say, far above many I have known, and he is 
aman. If you would know a master, you should see him on 
his own ship. If you would know a gentleman, you should 
have been with me in his mother’s cottage.’ And, warming 
as I talked, I told her of that saddest of all home-comings to 
ro the little cabin under Criffel’s height. 

Small wonder that I adored Dorothy! Would that I could 
paint her moods, that I might describe the strange light in her 
eyes when I| had finished, that I might tell how in an instant 
she was another woman. She rose impulsively and took a 

15 chair at my side, and said :— 

‘“’Tis so I love to hear you speak, Richard, when you up- 
hold the absent. For I feel it 1s so you must champion me 
when I am far away. My dear old playmate is ever the same, 
strong to resent, and seeing ever the best in his friends. For- 

20 give me, Richard, I have been worse than silly. And will you 
tell me that story of your adventures which | long to learn?” 

Ay, that I would. I told it her, and she listened silently, 
save only now and then a cry of wonder or of sympathy that 
sounded sweet to my ears,—just as I had dreamed of her 

25 listening when I used to pace the deck of the brigantine John, 
at sea. And when at length I had finished, she sat looking 
out over the Green Park, as tho’ she had forgot my presence. 

And so Mrs. Manners came in and found us. 

It had ever pleased me to imagine that Dorothy’s mother 

30 had been in her youth like Dorothy. She had the same tall 
figure, grace in its every motion, and the same eyes of deep 
blue, and the generous but well-formed mouth. A man may 
pity, but cannot conceive the heroism that a woman of such a 
mould must have gone through who has been married since 

35 early girlhood to a man like Mr. Manners. Some women 
would haye been driven quickly to frivolity, and worse, ba 
this one had struggled year after year to maintain an out- 


ARLINGTON STREET 273 


ward serenity to a critical world, and had succeeded, tho’ 
success had cost her dear. Each trial had deepened a line 
of that face, had done its share to subdue the voice which 
had once rung like Dorothy’s; and in the depths of her eyes 
lingered a sadness indefinable. 5 

She gazed upon me with that kindness and tenderness I 
had always received since the days when, younger and more 
beautiful than now, she was the companion of my mother. 
And the unbidden shadow of a thought came to me that these 
two sweet women had had some sadness in common. Many a 10 
summer’s day I remembered them sewing together in the 
spring-house, talking in subdued voices which were hushed . 
when I came running in. And lo! the same memory was on 
Dorothy’s mother then, half expressed as she laid her hands 
upon my shoulders. 15 

“Poor Elizabeth!’ she said,—not to me, nor yet to Doro- 
thy; “I wish that she might have lived to see you now. It is 
Captain Jack again.” 

She sighed, and kissed me. And I felt at last that I had 
come home after many wanderings. We sat down, mother 20 
and daughter on the sofa with their fingers locked. She did 
not speak of Mr. Manners’s conduct, or of my stay in the 
sponging-house. And for this I was thankful. 

“T have had a letter from Mr. Lloyd, Richard,” she said. 

“ And my grandfather?’ I faltered, a thickness in my throat. 25 

“My dear boy,” answered Mrs. Manners, gently, “he thinks 
you dead. But you have written him?” she added hurriedly. 

_ Inodded. “From Dumfries.” 

“He will have the letter soon,” she said’ cheerfully. “I 
thank Heaven I am able to tell you that his health is remark- 30 
able under the circumstances. But he will not quit the house, 
and sees no one except your uncle, who is with him con- 


stantly.” 
~ It was what I expected. But the confirmation of it brought 
me to my fst in a torrent of indignation, exclaiming :— 35 


_ “The villain! You tell me he will allow Mr. Carvel to see 


4 one?” 


+g 
~ 


274 RICHARD CARVEL 


Bosna 


She started forward, laying her hand on my arm, and Dordl 
thy gave a little cry. : 
“What are you saying, Richard? What are you saying!” ~ 
“Mrs. Manners,” I answered, collecting myself, “I must cell 
5 you that I believe it is Grafton Carvel himself that is responsi-= 
ble for my abduction. He meant that I should be murdered.” 
Then Dorothy rose, her eyes flashing and her head high. 
“He would have murdered you—you, Richard?” she cried, 
in such a storm of anger as I had never seen her. ‘Oh, he 
xo Should hang for the thought of it! I have always suspected 
Grafton Carvel capable of any crime!’ 
“Hush, Dorothy,” said her mother; 
young sirl to talk so.’ 
“Seemly!” said Dorothy. “If I were a man I would bring 
15 him to justice, and it took me a lifetime. Nay, if I were a 
man and could use a sword—” | | 
“Dorothy! Dorothy!” interrupted Mrs. Manners. f 
Dorothy sat down, the light lingering in her eyes. She had 
revealed more of herself in that instant than in all her life 
20 before. ; 
BACs a grave charge, Richard,” said Mrs. Manners, at 
length. “And your uncle is a man of the best standing m 
Annapolis.” 
“You must remember his behaviour before my mother’s 
25 marriage, Mrs. Manners.” : 
“TI do, I do, Richard,” she said sadly. “And I have never 
trusted him since. J suppose you are not making your ac 
cusation without cause?” : 
“‘[ have cause enough,” I answered bitterly. . 
30 ‘And proof?” she added. She should have been the mail 
in her family. * 
I told her how Harvey had overheard the bits of the plot 
at Carvel Hall near two years gone; and now that I had be= 
gun, I was going through with Mr. Allen’s part in the con= 
35 Spiracy, when Dorothy startled us both by cry 
“Oh, there is so much wickedness in the world SF wis wish i he 
never been born!” 


“it is not seemly fora 







ARLINGTON STREET 275 


She flung herself from the room in a passion of tears to 
shock me. As if in answer to my troubled look, Mrs. Man- 
ners said, with a sigh:— 

“She has not been at all well, lately, Richard. I fear the 
gayety of this place is too much for her. Indeed, I am sorry 5 
we ever left Maryland.” 

I was greatly disturbed, and thought involuntarily of 
Comyn’s words. Could it be that Mr. Manners was forcing 
her to marry Chartersea? 

“And has Mr. Lloyd said nothing of my uncle?” I asked 10 
after a while. 

ey] will not deny that ugly rumours are afloat,” she an- 
swered. ‘Grafton, as you know, is not liked in Annapolis, 
especially by the Patriot party. But there is not the slightest 
ground for suspicion. The messenger—” 15 

Ves poe 

“Your uncle denies all kuoededae of. He was taken to be 
the tool of the captain of the slaver, and he disappeared so 
completely that it was supposed he had escaped to the ship. 
‘The story goes that you were seized for a ransom, and killed 20 
in the struggle. Your black ran all the way to town, crying. 
the news to those he met on the Circle and in West Street, but 
by the mercy of God he was stopped by Mr. Swain and some 
others before he had reached your grandfather. In ten min- 
utes a score of men were galloping out of the Town Gate, Mr. 25 
Lloyd and Mr. Singleton ahead. ‘They found your horse dead, 
and the road through the woods all trampled down, and they 
spurred after the tracks down to the water’s edge. Singleton 
recalled a slaver, the crew of which had been brawling at the 
Ship tavern a few nights before. But the storm was so thick 30 
they could not see the ship’s length out into the river. They 
started two fast sloops from the town wharves in chase, and 

your uncle has been moving heaven and earth to obtain some 
clew of you. He has put notices in the newspapers of Charles- 
town, Philadelphia, New York, and even Boston, and offered 3; 
a thousand pounds reward.” 


-~ 


a | 


CHAPTER XXIX 


I MEET A VERY GREAT YOUNG MAN = 


i 
Tue French clock had struck four, and I was beginning to 
fear that, despite my note, the captain’s pride forbade hi 
coming to Mr. Manners’s house, when in he walked, as tho 
*twere no novelty to have his mame announced. And so 
3 straight and handsome was he, his dark eye flashing with ie 
self-confidence born in the man, that the look of uneasiness ] 
had detected upon Mrs. Manners’s face quickly changed to 
one of surprise and pleasure. Of course the good lady had 
anticipated a sea-captain of a far different mould. He kissed 
1oher hand with a respectful grace, and then her daughter's, 
for Dorothy had come back to us, calmer. And I was filled 
with joy over his fine appearance. Even Dorothy was struck 
by the change the clothes had made in him. Mrs. Manners 
thanked him’ very tactfully for restoring me to them, as she 
1s was pleased to put it, to which John Paul modestly replied 
that he had done no more than another would under the samé 
circumstances. And he soon had them both charmed by 
his address. 
“Why, Richard,” said Dorothy’s mother aside to me, ‘ ‘sures 
20 ly this cannot be your sea-captain!” 

I nodded merrily. But John Paul’s greatest triumph was 
yet to come. For presently Mr. Marmaduke arrived from 
White’s, and when he had greeted me with effusion he levelled 
his glass at the corner of the room. 4 

25 “Ahem!” he exclaimed. “Pray, my dear, whom have you 
invited to-day?” And without awaiting her reply, as was 
frequently his habit, he turned to me and said: “‘I had hone 
we were to have the pleasure of Captain Paul’s company, 
Richard. For I must have the chance before you go of clas 

3oing the hand of your benefactor.” 


276 








A VERY GREAT YOUNG MAN 277 


“You shall have the chance, at least, sir,”’ I replied, a fiery 
exultation in my breast. “Mr. Manners, this is my friend, 
Captain Paul.” 

The captain stood up and bowed gravely at the little Se 
tleman’s blankly amazed countenance. 

“Ahem,” said he; “‘dear me, is it possible!”’ and Pir 
a step, but the captain remained immovable. Mr. Marmaduke 
fumbled for his snuff-box, failed to find it, halted, and began 
again, for he never was known to lack words for long: 
“Captain, as one of the oldest friends of Mr. Lionel Carvel ae 
claim the right to thank you in his name for your gallant 
conduct. I hear that you are soon to see him, and to receive 
his obligations from him in person. You will not find him 
lacking, sir, Pll warrant.” 

Such was Mr. Marmaduke’s feline ingenuity! I had a re-:5 
tort ready, and I saw that Mrs. Manners, long tried in such oc- 
casions, was about to pour oil on the waters. But it was 
Dorothy who exclaimed :— 

“What, captain! are you, too, going to Maryland?” 

John Paul reddened. 20 

“Ay, that he is, Dolly,” I cut in hurriedly. “Did you 
imagine I would let him escape so easily! Henceforth, as he 
has said, he is to be an American.”’ 

She flashed at me such a look as might have had a dozen 
different meanings, and in a trice it was gone again under 25 
her dark lashes. 

Dinner was got through I know not how. Mr. Manners led 
the talk, and spoke more than was needful concerning our 
BSproaching voyage. He was at great pains to recommend 
the Virginia packet, which had made the fastest passage from 30 
the Capes; and she sailed, as was no doubt most conven- 
ient, the Saturday following. I should find her a comfortable 
vessel, and he would oblige me with a letter to Captain Alsop. 
Did Captain Paul know him? But the captain was describ- 

ig West Indian life to Mrs. Manners. Dorothy had little to 35 
say; and as for me, I was in no very pleasant humour. I[ 
i: a deaf ear to Mr. Marmaduke’s sallies, to speculate on 


=z 
278 RICHARD CARVEL \e 


d 
ae 
the nature of the disgrace which Chartersea was Said to hold 
over his head. And twenty times, as I looked upon Dolly's” 
beauty, I ground my teeth at the notion of returning home. 
I have ever been slow of suspicion, but suddenly it struck me 
ssharply that Mr. Manners’s tactics must have a deeper 
significance than I had thought. Why was it that he feared 
my presence in London? _ 

As we made our way back to the drawing-room, I was hop- | 

ing for a talk with Dolly (alas! I should not have many 
romore), when | heard a voice which sounded strangely 
familiar. 

“You know, Comyn,” it was saying, “you know I should 
be at the Princess’s were I not so completely worn out. | 
was up near all of last night with Rosette.” “3 

15 Mr. Marmaduke, entering before us, cried:— : 

“The dear creature! I trust you have had medical attend- 
ance, Mr. Walpole.”’ 

“Egad!”? quoth Horry (for it was he), “I sent Favre to 
Hampstead to fetch Dr. Pratt, where he was attending some 

2omercer’s wife. It seems that Rosette had got into the street 
and eaten something horrible out of the kennel. I discharged 
the footman, of course. 

“A plague on your dog, Horry,” said my Lord, yawning, 
and was about to add somethine worse, when he caught sight 

25 of Dorothy. , 

Mr. Walpole bowed over her hand. ] 

“And have you forgotten so soon your Windsor acquaint 
ances, Mr. Walpole?” she asked, laughing. 

“Bless me,” said Horry, looking very hard at me, “so it 

301s, so itis. Your hand, Mr. Carvel. You have only to remain 
in London, sir, to discover that your reputation is ready-made. 
I contributed my mite. For you must know that | am a sort 
of circulating library of odd news ~vhich those devils, the 
printers, contrive to get sooner or later—Heaven knows how! 
3s And Miss Manners herself has completed your fame. Yes 
the story of your gallant rescue is in all the clubs to-day. 
Egad, sir, you come down heads up, like a loaded coin. You 














A VERY GREAT YOUNG MAN 279 


will soon be a factor in Change Alley.’”’ And glancing slyly 
at the blushing Dolly, he continued: “I have been many 
things, Miss Manners, but never before an instrument of Proy- 
idence. And so you discovered your rough diamond yester- 
day, and have polished him in a day. O that Dr. Franklin 5 
had profited as well by our London tailors! The rogue never 
told me, when he was ordering me about in his swan-skin, that 
he had a friend in Arlington Street, and a reigning beauty. 
But I like him the better for it.” 

“And I the worse,”’ said Dolly. I0 

“T perceive that he still retains his bodyguard,” said Mr. 
Walpole; ““Captain—” 

“Paul,” said Dolly, seeing that we would not help him out. 
“Ah, yes. These young princes from the New World must 
have their suites. You must bring them both some day tors 
my little castle at Strawberry Hill.” 
“Unfortunately, Mr. Walpole, Mr. Carvel finds that he 
must return to America,’? Mr. Marmaduke interjected. He 

had been waiting to get in this word. ; 

Comyn nudged me. And I took the opportunity, in the 20 
awkward silence that followed, to thank Mr. Walpole for 
sending his coach after us. 

“And pray where did you get your learning?”’ he de- 
manded abruptly of the captain, in his most patronizing way. 
“Your talents are wasted at sea, sir. You should try your 25 
fortune in London, where you shall be under my protection, 
sir. They shall not accuse me again of stifling young genius. 
Stay,” he cried, warming with generous enthusiasm, “‘stay, I 
have an opening. *Iwas but yesterday Lady Cretherton told 
me that she stood in need of a tutor for her youngest son, and 30 
you shall have the position.” 

“Pardon me, sir, but I shall not have the position,”’ said 
John Paul, coolly. And Horry might have heeded the danger 
signal. I had seen it more than once on board the brigantine 
John, and knew what was coming. 35 
__ “Faith, and why not, sir? If I recommend you, why not, 


_. 


= 
280 RICHARD CARVEL | : 


“Because I shall not take it,” he said. “I have my pro- 
fession, Mr. Walpole, and it is an honourable one. And I 
would not exchange it, sir, were it in your power to make 
me a Gibbon or a Hume, or tutor to his Royal Highness, 

5 which it is not.’ 

Thus, for the second time, the weapon of the renowned 
master of Strawberry was knocked from his hand at a single 
stroke of his strange adversary. I should like to describe 
John Paul as he made that speech,—for ’twas not so much 

ro the speech as the atmosphere of it. Those who heard and 
saw were stirred with wonder, for Destiny lay bare that 
instant, just as the powers above are sometimes revealed at a 
single lightning-bolt. Mr. Walpole made a reply. that strove 
hard to be indifferent; Mr. Marmaduke stuttered, for he was 

rs frightened, as little souls are apt to be at such times. But 
my Lord Comyn, forever natural, forever generous, cried out 
heartily :-— 

“Egad, captain, there you are a true sailor! Which would 
you rather have been, I say, William Shakespeare or ” 

20 Francis?” 

“Which would you rather be, Richard,” said Dolly to me, 
under her breath, “‘Horace W alpole or Cajitain John pal 
I begin to like your captain better.”’ 

Willy nilly, Mr. Walpole was forever doing me a service, 

25 Now, in order to ignore the captain more completely, he sat 
him down to engage Mr. and Mrs. Manners. Comyn was 
soon hot in an argument with John Paul concerning the sea= 
going qualities of a certain frigate, every rope and spar of 
which they seemed to know. And so I stole a few momen | 

30 with Dorothy. 

“You are going to take the captain to Maryland, Richard?” 
she asked, playing with her fan. q 

“J intend to get him the Belle of the Wye. Tis the least 1 
can do. For I.am at my wits’ end how to reward him, Dolly, 

3s And when are you coming back?” I whispered earnestly, 
seeing her silent. | 

“T would that I knew, Richard,” she replied, with a certai 








A VERY GREAT YOUNG MAN 281 





sadness that went to my heart, as tho’ the choice lay beyond 
her. Then she changed. “Richard, there was more in Mr. 
Lloyd’ s letter than mamma told you of. There was ill news 
lof one of your friends.” 
| “Til news!” 5 
| She looked at me fixedly, and then continued, her voice so 
low that I was forced to bend over:— 
| “Yes. You were not told that Patty Swain fell in a faint 
when she heard of your disappearance. You were not told 
that the girl was ill for a week afterwards. Ah, Richard, I 10 
fear you are a sad flirt. Nay, you may benefit by the doubt, 
—perchance you are going home to be married.’ 
You may be sure that this intelligence, from Dorothy’s 
lips, only increased my trouble and perplexity. 
“You say that Patty has been ill?” 1s 
“Very ill,” says she, with her lips tight closed. 
“Indeed, I grieve to. hear of it,” I replied; “but I cannot 
think that my accident had anything to do with the 
matter.” 

“Young ladies do not send their fathers to coffee houses to 20 
me duels unless their feelings are engaged,” she flung 

ac 

“You have heard the story of that affair, Dorothy. At least 
enough of it to do me justice.” 

She was plainly agitated. 25 

“Has Lord Comyn—”’ 
_ “Lord Comyn has told you the truth,”’ I said; “so much I 
know.” 

_ Alas for the exits and entrances of life! Here comes the 
footman. 30 
“Mr. Fox,” said he, rolling the name, for it was a great 

one. 

~ Confound Mr. Fox! He might have waited five short 
minutes. 

~ It was, in truth, none other than that precocious marvel 35 
of England who but a year before had taken the breath from 
House of Commons, and had sent his fame flying over the 








282 RICHARD CARVEL 


Channel and across the wide Atlantic; the talk of London, 
who set the fashions, cringed not before white hairs, or royalty, 
or customs, or institutions, and was now, at one and twenty, 
Junior Lord of the Admiralty—Charles James Fox. H& 
s face was dark, forbidding, even harsh—until he smiled. Hig 
eyebrows were heavy and shaggy, and his features of a 
rounded, almost Jewish mould. He put me in mind of th 
Stuarts, and I was soon to learn that he was descended fromm 
them. . 
xo As he entered the room I recall remarking that he was 
possessed of the supremest confidence of any man I had ever 
met. Mrs. Manners he greeted in one way, Mr. Marmaduk 
in another, and Mr. Walpole in still another. ‘To Comyn it 
was “Hello, Jack,” as he walked by him. Each, as it were, 
15 had been tagged with a particular value. 

Chagrined as I was at the interruption, I was struck with 
admiration. For the smallest actions of these rare men of 
master passions so compel us. He came to Dorothy, whom he 
seemed not to have perceived at first, and there passed oa 

20 tween them such a look of complete understanding ‘that 
suddenly remembered Comyn’s speech of the night before, 
*Now it 1s Charles Fox.’’ Here, indeed, was the man who 
might have won her. And yet I did not hate him. Nay, 
I loved him from the first time he addressed me. It was 

25 Dorothy who introduced us. 

“T think I have heard of you, Mr. Carvel,” he said, nal 
a barely perceptible wink at Comyn. : 

“And I think I have heard of you, Mr. Fox,” I replied. 

“The deuce you have, Mr. Carvel!” said he, and laughed. 

30 And Comyn laughed, and Dorothy laughed, and | laugheds 
We were friends from chat moment. '¥ 

“Richard has appeared amongst us like a comet,” put in the 
ubiquitous Mr. Manners, “and, I fear, intends to disappear 
in like manner.” 

35 ‘And where is the tail of this comet?” demanded Fox, 
instantly; “for I understood there was a tail.” | 

John Paul was brought up, and the Junior Lord of th | 















A VERY GREAT YOUNG MAN 283 


Admiralty looked him over from head to toe. And what, my 
lears, do you think he said to him? 

“Have you ever acted, Captain Paul?” 

The captain started back in surprise. 

**Acted!”? he exclaimed; “‘ really, sir, I do not know. I; 
lave never been upon the boards.” 

Mr. Fox vowed that he could act: that he was sure of it, 
rom the captain’s appearance. 

“And I, too, am sure of it, Mr. Fox,” cried Dorothy, clap- 
ding hau hands. sSPerswade’ him’ to stay awhile in London, 10 
hat you may have him at your next theatricals at Holland 
douse. Why, he knows Shakespeare and Pope and—and 

Shaucer by heart, and Ovid and Horace,—is it not so, Mr. 
Walpole?” 

“Is not what so, my dear young lady?” asked Mr. Wal-1s 
ole, pretending not to have heard. 

~ There!” exclaimed Dolly, pouting, when the laughter had 
ubsided; “you make believe to care something about me, and 
ret will not listen to what I say.’ 

I had seen at her feet our own Maryland Spal the 20 
ongest of whose reputations stretched barely from the James 
‘0 the Schuylkill; but here in London men were hanging on 
er words whose names were familiarly spoken in Paris, “and 
ome, and Geneva. Not a topic was broached by Mr. Walpole 
ie Mr. Fox, from the remonstrance of the Archbishop against 25 
iaasquerades and the coming marriage of my Lord Albemarle 
(0 the rights and wrongs of Mr. Wilkes, but my lady had her 
ay. Mrs. Manners seemed more than content that she should 
play the hostess, which she did to perfection. She contrived 
(0 throw poisoned darts at the owner of Strawberry that 30 
tarted little Mr. Marmaduke to fidgeting in his seat, and he 
lame to the rescue with all the town-talk at his command. 
de knew little else. Could Mr. Walpole tell him of this club 
if both sexes just started at Almack’s: Mr. Walpole could 
ella deal, tho’ he took the pains first to explain that he was 35 
ecoming too old for such frivolous and fashionable society. 


; could not, for the life of him, say why he was included. 











5 


- To 







284 RICHARD CARVEL | \ 


But, in spite of Mr. Walpole, John Paul was led out in the 
paces that best suited him, and finally, to the undisgui 
delight of Mr. Fox, managed to trip Horry upon an obscure 
point in Athenian literature. And this broke up the company. 
As we took our leave Dorothy and Mr. Fox were talki 
together with lowered voices. 
“T shall see you before I go,”’ I said to her. 
She laughed, and glanced at Mr. Fox. 
“You are not going, Richard Carvel,”’ said she. 
“That you are not, Richard Carvel,” said Mr. Fox. 
I smiled, rather lamely, I fear, and said good-night. 


CHAPTER XXX 


| A CONSPIRACY 


“Banks, where is the captain?” I asked, as I entered the 
yarlour the next morning. 
: “Gone, sir, since seven o’clock,’’ was the reply. 
~ ©Gone!”’ I exclaimed; “gone where?” 
4“ Faith, I did not ask his honour, sir.”’ 5 
I thought it strange, but reflected that John Paul was given 
0 whims. Having so little time before him, he had probably 
rone to see the sights he had missed yesterday: the Pantheon 
which was building, an account of which had appeared in all 
the colonial papers; or the new Blackfriars Bridge; or the ro 
Tower; or perhaps to see his Majesty ride out. The wonders 
of London might go hang, for all I cared. Who would gaze 
at the King when he might look upon Dorothy! [ sighed. 
Ubade Banks dress me in the new suit Davenport had brought 
that morning, and then sent him off to seek the shipping agent 15 
of the Virginia packet to get us a cabin. I would go to Ar- 
lington Street as soon as propriety admitted. 
_ But I had scarce finished my chocolate and begun to smoke 
in a pleasant revery, when I was startled by the arrival of 
two gentlemen. One ‘was Comyn, and the other none less 20 
than Mr. Charles Fox. 
“Now where the devil has your captain flown to!” said 
my Lord, tossing his whip on the table. 
' “T believe he must be sight-seeing,” I said. “I dare swear 
he has taken a hackney coach to the Tower.” - 25 
_ “To see the liberation of the idol of the people, I’ll lay ten 
guineas. But they say the great Mr. Wilkes is to come out 
quietly, and wishes no demonstration,” said Mr. Fox. “I 
believe the beggar has some sense, if the of roddot would only 


é 


; 285 


j 


| 
; 
. 
| 





286 RICHARD CARVEL 4 
let him-have his way. So your captain is a Wilkite, Mr. 
Carvel?”’ he demanded. 

“T fear you run very fast to conclusions, Mr. Fox,” I a 
swered, laughing, tho’ I thought his guess was not far from 

5 wrong. 

ral lay you the ten guineas he has been to the Tower,” 
said Mr. Fox, promptly. 

** Done; sir; *saidel. 

ldar ke ye, Richard,” said Comyn, stretching himself in an 

ro arm-chair; “we are come to take the wind out of your sails, 
and leave: you without an excuse for going home. And we 
want your captain, alive or dead. Charles, here, is to give 
him a commission in his Majesty’s Navy.” 

Then I knew why Dorothy had laughed when I had spoken 

15 of seeing her again. Comyn—bless him!—had told her of 
his little scheme. 

“Egad, Charles!”’ cried his Lordship, “to Py at his glum 
face, one might think we were a couple of Jews who he 
cornered him.” 

20 Alas for the perversity of the heart! Instead of leapi 
for joy, as no doubt they had both confidently of leaning 
was both troubled and perplexed by this unlooked-for news. 
Oak, when bent, 1s even harder to bend back again. And so 
it has ever been with me. I had determined, after a bitter 

25 struggle, to go to Maryland, and had now become used to 
that prospect. [ was anxious to see my grandfather, and to 
confront Grafton Carvel with his villainy. And there was 
John Paul. What would he think? # 

“What ails you, Richard?” Comyn demanded somewhat 

30 testily. 

“Nothing, Jack,” I replied. “I thank you from my hell 
and you, Mr. Fox. I know that commissions are not to be 
had for the asking, and I rejoice with the captain over his 
good fortune. But, gentlemen,” I said soberly, ‘ ‘I had most 

35 selfishly hoped that I might be able to do a service to John 
Paul in return for his charity to me. You offer him something 
nearer his deserts, something beyond my power to give him. 


A 










A CONSPIRACY - 287 


Fox’s eyes kindled. 

“You speak like a man, Mr. Carvel,” said he. “But you 
are too modest. Damn it, sir, don’t you see that it is you, 
and no one else, who has procured this commission? Had 
[ not been taken with you, sir, | should scarce have promised 5 
it to your friend Comyn, through whose interest you obtain 
it for your protégé.” 

I remembered what Mr. Fox’s enemies said of him, and 
smiled at the plausible twist he had given the facts. 

i “No,” I said; “no, Mr. Fox; never that. The captain ro 
must not think that I wish to be rid of him. I will not 
stand in the way, though, if it is to be offered him, he must 
Biexpichend that I had naught to do with the matter. But, 
sir,” I continued curi ously, “what do you know of John 
Paul’s abilities as an officer?”’ 15 
Mr. Fox and Comyn laughed so immoderately as to bring 
the blood to my face. 
“Damme!” cried the Junior Lord, “ but you Americans have 
> odd consciences! Do you suppose Rigby was appointed Pay- 
master of the Forces because of his fitness? Why was North 20 
himself made Prime Minister? For his abilities?” And he 
broke down again. “Ask Jack, here, how he got into the 
service, and ae much seamanship he knows. 5 
| “Faith,” answered Jack, unblushingly, “Admiral Lord 
Comyn, my father, wished me to serve awhile. And so | have 25 
taken two cruises, delivered some score of commands, and 
searce know a supple jack from a can of flip. Cursed if I see 
the fun of it in these piping times 0’ peace, so I have given it 
ap, Richard. For Charles says this Falkland business with 
Spain will blow out of the touch-hole.”’ 30 

I could see little to laugh over. For the very rottenness of 
he service was due to the miserable and servile Ministry and 
Parliament of his Majesty, by means of which instruments he 
was forcing the Colonies to the wall. Verily, that was a time 
when the greatness of England hung in the balance! How 3s 
little I suspected that the young man then seated beside me, 
r had cast so unthinkingly his mighty powers on the side 





| 





288 - RICHARD CARVEL 4 


of corruption, was to be one of the chief instruments of her 
salvation! We were to fight George the Third across the seas. 
He was to wage no less courageous a battle at home, im the 
King’s own capital. And the cause? Yes, the cause was to 
s be the same as that of the Mr. Wilkes he reviled, who obtained 
his liberty that day. . 
At length John Paul came in, calling my name. He broke 
off abruptly at sight of the visitors. 
“Now we shall decide,” said Mr. Fox. “Captain, I have 
ro bet Mr. Carvel ten guineas you have been to the [ower to see 
Squinting Jack! get his liberty at last.” 3 fp 
The captain looked astonished. 
“Anan, then, you have lost, Richard,” said he. “For I have 
been just there.” : 
1s “And helped, no doubt, to carry off the champion on yout 
shoulders,”’ said Mr. Fox, sarcastically, as I paid the debt, 
“Mr. Wilkes knows full well the value of moderation, sir,” 
replied the captain, in the same tone. 
“Well, damn the odds!”’ exclaimed the Junior Lord, laugh 
soing. * You may have the magic number tattooed all over you) 
back, for all I care. You shall have the commission.” 
“The commission!” : + 
“Yes,” said Fox, carelessly; ‘I intend making you a lieu 
tenant, sir, in the Royal Navy.” % 
2s Lhe moment the words were out I was a-tremble as to hoy 
he would take the offer. For he had a certain puzzling pride 
which flew hither and thither. But there was surely no com 
parison between the situations of the master of the Belle 6 
the Wye and an officer in the Royal Navy. There, his talent 
30 would make him an admiral, and doubtless give him the soeia 
position he secretly coveted. He confounded us all by hi 
answer. 5 
“IT thank you, Mr. Fox. But I cannot accept your kind 
ness. : 
35 ‘’Slife!’” said Fox, “you refuse? And you know wha 
you are doing?” a 
1John Wilkes. 






\ A CONSPIRACY 289 
| “T know peut Sita 


Comyn swore y exclamation had something of relief in it. 
| “Captain,” I said, “I felt that I could not stand in the way 
fthis. It has been my hope that you will come with me, and 
| have sent this morning after a cabin on the Virginia. Yous 
aust know that Mr. Fox’s offer is his own, and Lord 
pomyn’s.”’ 





_ “I know it well, Richard. I have not lived these three 
aonths with you for nothing.” His voice seemed to fail 

iim. He drew near me and took my hand. “But did you 10 
hink I would require of you the sacrifice of leaving Lon- 
lon now?”’ 

| “It is my pleasure as well as my duty, captain.” 

“No,” he said, “I am not like that. Yesterday I went to 
lhe city to see a shipowner whose acquaintance | made when 15 
je was a master in the West India trade.-He has had some 
eason to know that.I can handle a ship. Never mind what. 
\nd he has given me the bark Betsy, whose former master is 
ately dead of the smallpox. Richard, I sail to-morrow.” 

In Dorothy’s coach to Whitehall Stairs, by the grim old pal- 20 
‘ce out of whose window Charles the Martyr had walked to 
Ais death. For Dorothy had vowed it was her pleasure to see 
John Paul off, and who could stand in her way? Surely not 
Wir, Marmaduke! and Mrs. Manners laughingly acquiesced. 
Jur spirits were such that we might have been some honest 25 
nercer’ Ss apprentice and his sweetheart away for an outing. 

“If we should take a wherry, Richard,” said Dolly, ‘ “who 
vould know of it? I have longed to be in a wherry ever’since 

.came to London.” F 

| The river was smiling as she tripped gayly down to the 30 
vater, and the red-coated watermen were smiling, too, and 
iudging one another. But little cared we! Dolly in holiday 
qwmour stopped for naught. “Boat, your honour! Boat, 
ryoat! To Rotherhithe—Redriff? an and six apiece, sir.” 
For that intricate puzzle called human nature was solved out 35 
of hand by the Thames watermen. Here was a young gentle- 
who never heard of the Lord Mayor’s scale of charges. 


| 


| 


290 RICHARD CARVEL \z 
And what was a shilling to such as he! Tin eieate puzzle, ii 
deed! Any booby might have read upon the young man’s fac 
that secret which is written for all,—high and low, rich an 
poor alike. 

s My new lace handkerchief was down upon the seat, le 
Dolly soil her bright pink lutestring. She should have wor 
nothing else but the hue of roses. How the bargemen starec 
and the passengers craned their necks, and the “longshoreme 
stopped their work as we shot past them! On her; account 

ro barrister on the aus Stairs was near to letting fall his ba 
in the water. A lady in a wherry! Where were the whim 
of the quality to lead them next? Past the tall water-towe 
and York Stairs, the idlers under the straight row of tree 
leaning over the high river wall; past Adelphi Terrace, wher 
15 the great Garrick lived; past the white colamns-of Somerse 
House, with its courts and fountains and alleys and arch 
tecture of all ages, and its river gate where many a gilde 
royal barge had lain, and many a fine ambassador had arrive 
in state over the great highway of England; past the ancien 
20 trees in the Temple Gardens. And then. undesehe ne} 
Blackfriars Bridge to Southwark, dingy with its docks an 
breweries and huddled houses, but forerer famous,—the South 
wark of Shakespeare and Jonson and Beaumont and Fletche 
And the shelf upon which they stood in the library at Cane 
25 Hall was before my eyes. 

“Yes,” said Dolly; “and I recall yourmother’s name writte 
in faded ink upon the fly-leaves.” 

Ah, London Town, by what subtleties are you tied to th 
hearts of those born across the sea? That is one of the ri 

30 teries of race. 

Under the pomted arches of old London Bridge, with it 
hooded shelters for the weary, to where the massive Towe 
had frowned for ages upon the foolish river. And then th 
forest of ships, and the officious throng of little wherries am 

3s lighters that pressed around them, seeming to say, “a 
clumsy giants, how helpless would you be without us!” Soo 
our own wherry was dodging among them, ships brough 






A CONSPIRACY 291 


Se 


lither by the four winds of the seas; many discharging in 
he stream, some in the docks then beginning to be built, and 
lugging the huge warehouses. Hides from frozen Russia were 
led high beside barrels of suga¥ and rum from the moist 
sland cane-fields of the Indies, and pipes of wine from the 5 
unny hillsides of France, and big boxes of tea bearing the 
lall-mark of the mysterious East. Dolly gazed in wonder. 
ind I was commanded to show her a schooner like the Black 
Moll, and a brigantine like the John. 

“And Captain Paul told me you climbed the masts, Rich- 10 
rd, and worked like a common seaman. Tell me,”’ says she, 
jointing at the royal yard of a tall East Indiaman, “did you 
jo as-high as that when it was rough?” 

| And, hugely to the boatman’s delight, the minx must needs 
yut her fingers on the hard welts on my hands, and vow she 1s 
vould be a sailor and she were a man. But at length we 
‘ame to a trim-built bark lying off Redriff Stairs, with the 
yords, “Betsy, of London,” painted across her stern. In no 
ime at all, Captain Paul was down the gangway ladder and 

it the water-side, to hand Dorothy out. 20 
“This honour overwhelms me, Miss Manners,” he said; 
| a I know whom to thank for it.” And he glanced slyly 
me. 

‘ Dorothy stepped aboard with the air of Queen Elizabeth 
ome to inspect Lord Howard’s flagship. 25 
“Then you will thank me,” said she. “Why, I could eat 
iy dinner off your deck, captain! Are all merchantmen so 
dean?” 

- John Paul smiled. 

_*Not all, Miss Manners,” he said. 30 
“And you are still sailing at the ebb?” I asked. 

' “Tn an hour, Richard, if the wind holds good.” 

“With what pride he showed us over his ship, the sailors 
raping at the fine young lady. It had taken him just a day 
© institute his navy discipline. And Dolly went about ex- 3s 
aiming, and asking an hundred questions, and merrily cate- 
thising me upon the run of the ropes. All was order and 














- 





292 RICHARD CARVEL 7 


readiness for dropping down the stream when he led us mt 
his cabin, where he had a bottle of wine and some a | 
ments laid out against my coming. r 
“Had I presumed to anticipate your visit, Miss Manners, , 
s should have had something more suitable for a lady,” he said 
“What, you will not eat, either, Richard?” 9 
I could not, so downcast had I become at the thought o 
parting. I had sat up half the night before with him in rest 
less argument and indecision, and even when he had lea 
ro Rotherhithe, early that morning, my mind had not been ma 
My conscience had insisted that I should sail with John Paul 
that I might never see my dear grandfather on earth again, | 
had gone to Arlington Street that morning resolved to sa} 
farewell to Dorothy. I will not recount the history of tha 
1s defeat, my dears. Nay, to this day I know not how she ae 
complished the matter. Not once had she asked me to te 
main, or referred to my going. Nor had [| spoken of it, weak 
ling that I was. She had come down in the pink lutestring 
smiling but pale; and traces of tears in her eyes, 1 thought 
20 From that moment I knew that I was defeated. It was sh 
herself who had proposed going with me to see the Betsy sai 
“T will drink some Madeira to wish you Godspeed, caf 
tain,” I said. ‘ 
“What is the matter with you, Richard?” Dolly eriec 
os ‘you are as sour as my Lord Sandwich after a bad Newmai 
ket. Why, captain,” said she, “I really believe he wants t 
go, too. The swain pines for his provincial beauty.” , 
Poor John Paul! He had not yet learned that good soctet 
is seldom literal. . 
30 ‘‘Upon my soul, Miss Manners, there you do him wrong, 
he retorted, with ludicrous heat; “‘you, above all, should kno 
for whom he pines.” | 
“He has misled you by praising me. This Richard, despi 
his frank exterior, is most secretive.” ae 
3s ‘There you have hit him, Miss Manners,” he declare 
“there you have hit him! We were together night and di 
on the sea and on the road, and, while | poured out my 










A CONSPIRACY 293 


to him, the rogue never once let fall a hint of the divine Miss 
Dorothy. *Twas not till I got to London that I knew of her 
existence, and then only by a chance. You astonish me. You 
speak of a young lady in Maryland?” 

| Dorothy swept aside my protest. 

| “Captain,” says she, gravely, “I leave you to judge. What 
is your inference, when he fights a duel about a miss with 
my Lord Comyn?” 

| **A duel!” cried the captain, astounded. 

| “Miss Manners persists in her view of the affair, despite 10 
my word to the contrary,” I put in rather coldly. 

“But a duel!” cried the captain again; “and with Lord 
Comyn! Miss Manners, I fondly thought I had discovered a 
‘constant man, but you make me fear he has had as many 
flames as I. And yet, Richard,” he added meaningly, “I1s5 
should think shame on my conduct and I had had such a 
subject for constancy as you.” 
| Dorothy’s armour was pierced, and my ill-humour broken 
down, by this characteristic speech. We both laughed, greatly 
'to his discomfiture. 20 
~ “You had best go home with him, Richard,” said Dolly, 
“T can find my way back to Arlington Street alone.” 

_ “Nay; gallantry forbids his going with me now,” answered 
John Paul; “and [ have my sailing orders. But had I known 
of this, I should never have wasted my breath in persuading 25 
him to remain.” 

_ “And did he stand in need of much persuasion, captain?” 
‘asked Dolly, archly. i 

_ Time was pressing, and the owner came aboard, pufiing,—a 
‘round-faced, vociferous, jolly merchant, who had no sooner 30 
got his breath than he lost it again upon catching sight of 
‘Dolly. While the captain was giving the mate his final 
orders, Mr. Orchardson, for such was his name, regaled us 
with a part of his life’s history. He had been a master him- 
self, and mangled and clipped King George’s English as only 35 
a true master might. 

_ “TL like your own captain better than ever, Richard,”’ whis- 


: 


294 RICHARD CARVEL 
pered Dolly, while Mr. Orchardson relieved himself of hi: 


quid over the other side; ‘chow commanding he is! Were | 
to take passage in the Betsy, I know I should be in love wit! 
him long before we got to Norfolk.” 

s -I took it upon myself to tell Mr. Orchardson, briefly anc 
clearly as I could, the lamentable story of John Paul’s las} 
cruise. For I feared it might sooner or later reach his ear: 
from prejudiced mouths. And I ended by relating how thi 
captain had refused a commission in the navy because he ha¢ 

ro promised to take the Betsy. This appeared vastly to impres: 
him, and he forgot Dorothy’s presence. 

“Passion o’ my ’eart, Mr. Carvel,” cried he, excitedly 
“John Paul’s too big a man, an’ too good a seaman, to go int¢ 
the navy without hinflooence. If flag horfocers I wots of i 

15 booted haside to rankle like a lump o’ salt butter in a gallipot 
ow will a poor Scotch lieutenant win hadvancement an’ he be 
not o’ the King’s friends? ‘Wilkes an’ Liberty,’ say I; ‘ for 
ever, say I. An’ wen I see ’im goin’ to the Tower to be’old 
the Champion, ‘Captain Paul,’ says I, ‘yere a man arfter my 

20 hown ’eart.’ My heye, sir, didn’t I see ’im, wn a mere lad, 
take the John into Kingston ’arbour in the face o’the worst 
gale I hever seed blowed in the Caribbees? An’ I says, ‘ Bill 
Horchardson, an’ ye hever ’ave ships o’ yere own, wich I ope 
will be, ye’ll know w’ere to look for a marster.’ An’ I tells 

25 im that same, Mr. Carvel. I means no disrespect to the dead, 
sir, but an’ John Paul ’ad discharged the Betsy, I'd not ’a 
been out twenty barrels or more this day by Thames mud- 
larks an’ scuffle hunters. ’Eave me flat, if ’e’ll be two blocks 
wi liquor an’ dischargin’ cargo. An’ ye may rest heasy, Mr. 

30 Carvel, [’ll not do wrong by ’1m, neither.” | 

He told me that if I would honour him in Maid Lane, 
Southwark, | should have as many pounds as I liked of the 
best tobacco ever cured in Cuba. And so he left me to see 
that the mate had signed all his lighter bills, shouting to the 

35 captain not to forget his cockets at Gravesend. Dolly and] 
stood silent while the men hove short, singing a jolly song to 
the step. With a friendly wave the round figure of Mr, 





| DNeCUINSE TRACY 295 


Orchardson disappeared over the side, and I knew that the 
time had come to say farewell. I fumbled in my waistcoat 
for the repeater I had bought that morning over against 
Temple Bar, in Fleet Street, and I thrust it into John Paul’s 
hand as he came up. 

- “Take this in remembrance of what you have suffered so un- 
selfishly for my sake, Captain Paul,” I said, my voice break- 
ing. “And whatever befalls you, do not forget that Carvel 
Hall is your home as well’as mine.” 

He seemed as greatly affected as was I. ‘Tears forced them- 10 
selves to his eyes as he held the watch, which he opened 
absently to read the simple 1 inscription I had put there. 
| “Oh, Dickie lad!” he cried, “T’ll be missing ye sair three 
hours hance: and thinking of ye for months to come in the 
night watches. But something tells me I’ll see ye again.” 15 
| And he took me in his arms, embracing me with Bich fer- 
your that there was no doubting the sincerity of his feelings. 
“Miss Dorothy,” said he, when he was calmer, “‘I give ye 
Richard for a leal and a true heart. Few men are born with 
the gift of keeping the affections warm despite absence, and 20 
ears, and interest. But have no fear of Richard Carvel.” 

Dorothy stood a little apart, watching us, her eyes that far-~ 
away blue of the deepening skies at twilight. 
~ “Indeed, I have no fear of him, captain,”’ she said gently. 
Then, with a quick movement, impulsive and womanly, she 25 
unpinned a little gold brooch at her throat, and gave it to 
him, saying: “In token of my gratitude for bringing him back 
to us.” 

John Paul raised it to his lips. 

Al shall treasure it, Miss Manners, as a memento of the 30 
greatest joy of my life. And that has been,” gracefully taking 
her hand and mine, “the bringing you two together again.’ 

: Dorothy grew scarlet as she curtseyed. As for me, I could 
speak never a word. He stepped over the side to hand her 
into the wherry, and embraced me once again.. And as we 35 
rowed away he waved his hat in a last good-by from the taff- 
rail. Then the ay floated down the Thames. 


'* 





) 


CHAPTER XXXII 
‘UPSTAIRS INTO THE WORLD.” 


Ir will be difficult, my dears, without bulging this history 
out of all proportion, to give you a just notion of the society 
into which I fell after John Paul left London. It was, above 
all, a gaming society. From that prying and all-powerful God 

5 of Chance none, great or small, escaped. Guineas were staked 
and won upon frugal King George and his beef and barley- 
water; Charles Fox and his debts; the intrigues of Choiseul 
and the Du Barry and the sensational marriage of the Due 
d’Orléans with Madame de Montesson (for your macaroni 

to knew his Paris as well as his London); Lord March and his 
opera singer; and even the doings of Betty, the apple-woman 
of St. James’s Street, and the beautiful barmaid of Nando’s 
in whom my Lord Thurlow was said to be interested. Al 
these, and much more not to be repeated, were duly set down 
rs in the betting-books at White’s and Brooks’s. 

Then the luxury of the life was something to startle a pro- 
vincial, even tho’ he came, as did I, from one of the two most 
luxurious colonies of the thirteen. Annapolis might be saié 
to be London on a small scale,—but on a very small scale 

20 Lhe historian of the future need look no farther than oui 
houses (if any remain), to be satisfied that we had more thar 
the necessities of existence. The Maryland aristocrat with hi 
town place and his country place was indeed a parallel of th 
patrician at home. He wore his English clothes, drove anc 

25 rode his English horses, and his coaches were built in Lo 
Acre. His heavy silver service came from Fleet Street, anc 
his claret and Champagne and Lisbon and Madeira were thi 
best that could be bought or smuggled. His sons were ofter 
educated at home, at Eton or Westminster and Oxford ‘ 


296 J 
i 


“UPSTAIRS INTO THE WORLD” 297 


ES i 


Gambridge. So would I have been if circumstances had per- 
mitted. So was James Fotheringay, the eldest of the family, 
ind later the Dulany boys, and half a dozen others I might 
nention. And then our ladies! *Tis but necessary to cite my 
Aunt Caroline as an extreme dame of fashion, who had her s 
French hairdresser, Pitou. 

| As was my aunt to the Duchess ox Kingston, so was An- 
iapolis to London. ‘To depict the life of Mayfair and of St. 
James’s Street during a season about the year of grace 1770 
lemands a mightier pen than wields the writer of these simple 10 
nemoirs. 

_ And who was responsible for all this luxury and laxity? 
Who but the great Mr. Pitt, then the Earl of Chatham, whose 
vise policy had made Britain the ruler of the world, and rich 
yeyond compare. From all corners of the earth her wealth 15 
youred in upon her. Nabob and Caribbee came from East 
ind West to spend their money in the capital. And fortunes 
lear as great were acquired by the City merchants themselves. 
Jne by one these were admitted within that charmed circle, 
vhose motto for ages had been “No Trade,” to leaven it with 20 
heir gold. And to keep the pace,—nay, to set it, the nobility 
ind landed gentry were sore pressed. As far back as good 
dueen Anne, and farther, their ancestors had gamed and tip- 
led away the acres; and now that John and William, whose 
orebears had been ‘good tenants for centuries, were setting 25 
heir faces to Liverpool and Birmingham and Leeds, their 
sottages were empty. So Lord and Squire went to London to 
‘ecuperate, and to get their share of the game running. St. 
lames’s Street and St. Stephen’s became their preserves. 
My Lord wormed himself into a berth in the Treasury, robbed 30 
she country systematically for a dozen of years, and sold the 
jlaces and reversions under him to the highest bidder. Bor- 
yughs were to be had somewhat dearer than a pair of colours. 
\nd my Lord spent his spare time—he had plenty of it— 
n fleecing the pigeons at White’s and Almack’s. Here there 35 
vas no honour, even amongst thieves. And young gentlemen 
vere hurried through Eton and Oxford, where they learned 


| 





298 RICHARD CARVEL | 
to drink and swear and to call a main as well as to play tenni 
and billiards and to write Latin, and were :hrust into Brooks’: 
before they knew the difference in value between a farthing 
and a banknote: at nineteen they were hardened rakes, 06) 

5 accomplished men of the world, or both. Dissipated noble 
men of middle age like March and Sandwich, wits and beau 
and fine gentlemen like Selwyn and Chesterfield and Walpole 
were familiarly called by their first names by youngsters lik 
Fox and Carlisle and Comyn. Difference of age was no dif 

ro ference. Young Lord Carlisle was the intimate of Mr. Selwyn 
born thirty years before him. 

And whilst I am speaking of intimacies, that short on 
which sprang up between me and the renowned Charles Fo: 
has always seemed the most unaccountable: not on my part 

1s for I fell a victim to him at once. Pen and paper, brush an 
canvas, are wholly inadequate to describe the charm of th 
man. When he desired to please, his conversation and th 
expression of his face must have moved a temperament 0 
stone itself. None ever had more devoted friends or mor 
20ardent admirers. They saw his faults, which he laid bar 
before them, but they settled his debts again and again, vas 
sums which he lost at Newmarket and at Brooks’s. And no 
many years after the time of which I now write Lord Carlisl 
was paying fifteen hundred a year on the sum he had loane 
25 him, cheerfully denying himself the pleasures of London as 
consequence. . 

It was Mr. Fox who discovered for me my lodgings in Dove 
Street, vowing that I could not be so out of fashion as to liv 
at aninn. The brief history of these rooms, as given by hin 

30 was this: ‘A young cub had owned them, whose mamma ha 
come up from Berkshire on Thursday, beat him soundly o 
Friday, paid his debts on Saturday, and had taken him bae 
on Sunday to hunt with Sir Henry the rest of his life. 
Dorothy came one day with her mother and swept throug 

3sMy apartments, commanded all the furniture to be move 
about, ordered me to get pictures for the walls, and by on 
fell decree abolished all the ornaments before the lane 


\ 


| “UPSTAIRS INTO THE WORLD” 299 


lady, used as she was to the ways of quality, had time 
to gasp 

Why, Richard,” says my lady, “you will be wanting no 
end of pretty things to take back to Maryland when you go. 


| 





>> 


to choose some of them. 
_ “Dorothy!” says her mother, reprovingly. 

“And he must have the Chippendale table I saw yesterday 

at the exhibition, and chairs to match. And every bachelor 
should have a punch bowl—Josiah has such a beauty!” 
But I am running far ahead. Among the notes with which 
my table was laden, Banks had found a scrawl. This I made 
out with difficulty to convey that Mr. Fox was not attending 
Parliament that day. If Mr. Carvel would do him the honour 
of calling at his lodging, over Mackie’s Italian Warehouse in 
Piccadilly, at four o'clock, he would take great pleasure in 
introducing him at Brooks’s Club. In those days ‘twas far 
better for a young gentleman of any pretensions to remain at 
home than go to London and be denied that inner sanctuary, 
—the younger club at Almack’s. Many the rich brewer’s son 
has embittered his life because it was not given him to see 
more than the front of the house from the far side of Pall 
Mall. But to be taken there by Charles Fox was an honour 
| ee to few. I made sure that Dolly was at the bottom 
Of it 

Promptly at four I climbed the stairs and knocked at Mr. 
Fox’s door. The Swiss who opened it shook his head du- 
biously when I asked for his master, and said he had not been 
at home that day. 

“But I had an appointment to meet him,” [ said, thinking 
it very strange. 

The man’s expression changed. 

“An appointment, sir! Ah, sir, then you are to step in 
here.”’ And to my vast ‘astonishment he admitted me into a 





You shall come with me to-morrow to Mr. Josiah Wedgwood’s 5 


25 


39 


small room at one side of the entrance. It was bare as pov- 35 


erty, and furnished with benches, and nothing more. On one 
of these was seated a person with an unmistakable nose and 
2 
g 
. . 


300 RICHARD CARVEL | 


an odour of St. Giles’s, who sprang to his feet and then sa) 
down again dejectedly. I also sat down, wondering what i 
could mean, and debating whether to go or to stay. 
66 3°) S| 6 
Exguse me, your honour,”’ said the person, “but haf you 
5 seen Mister Fox?”’ . 
I said that I, too, was waiting for him, whereat he cast a) 
me a cunning look beyond by comprehension. Surely, | 
thought, a man of Fox’s inherited wealth and position coul¢ 
not be living in such a place! Before the truth and humow 
xo of the situation had dawned upon me, I heard a ringing voier 
without, swearing in most forcible English, and the door wa: 
thrown open, admitting a tall young gentleman, as striking at 
I have ever seen. He paid not the smallest attention to the 
Jew, who was bowing and muttering behind me. 

zs “Mr. Richard Carvel?” said he, with a merry twinkle in hi: 
eye. 

I bowed. . 
“Gad’s life, Mr. Carvel, I’m deuced sorry this should have 
happened. Will you come with me?” 

20 ‘‘Exguse me, your honour!” cried the other visitor. 

“Now, what the plague, Aaron!” says he; “you wear out 
the stairs. Come to-morrow, or the day after.” . 

“Ay, ’tis always ‘to-morrow’ with you fine gentlemen. But 
I vill bring the bailiffs, so help me—” 

25 ‘Damn’em!” says the tall young gentleman, as he slammed 
the door and so shut off the wail. “Damn ’em, they WOITy 
Charles to death. If he would only stick to quinze and picquet 
and keep clear of the hounds,! he need never go near a broker, 
Do you have Jews in America, Mr. Carvel?” Without wait 

30 ing for an answer, he led me through a parlour, hung with pie- 
tures, and bewilderingly furnished with French and Italian 
things, and Japan and China ware and bronzes, and cups and 
trophies. “My name is Fitzpatrick, Mr. Carvel,—yours to 
command, and Charles’s. I am his ally for offence and de 

3s fence. We went to school together,” he explained simply. — 


1 The “hounds,” it appears, were the gentlemen of sharp practic ss 
at White’s and Almack’s.—D. C. C. 4 


WM 


| “UPSTAIRS INTO THE WORLD” 301 


__ His manner was so free, and yet so dignified, as to charm 
me completely. For I heartily despised all that fustian 
| ai of the age. Then.came a voice from beyond, call- 
bs “That you, Carvel? Damn that fellow Eiffel, and did he s 
‘thrust you into the Jerusalem | Chamber?” 
| “The Jerusalem Chamber!” I exclaimed. 
| “Where I keep my Israelites,” said he; ‘but, by Gad’s life! 
I think they are one and all descended from Job, and not 
father Abraham at all. He must have thought me cursed ro 
lascetic, eh, Fitz? Did you find the benches hard? I had ’em 
made hard as the devil. But if they were of stone, I vow the 
flock could find their own straw to sit on.” 
| “Curse it, Charles,”? cut in Mr. Fitzpatrick, in some temper, 
“can’t you be serious for once! He would behave this way, rs 
Mr. Carvel, if he were being shriven by the Newgate ordinary 
before a last carting to Tyburn. Charles, Charles, it was 
‘Aaron again, and the dog is like to snap at last. He is talk- 
ing of bailiffs. Take my advice and settle with him. Hold 
Cavendish off another fortnight and settle with him.” 20 
Mr. Fox’s reply was partly a laugh, and the rest of it is not 
‘to be printed. He did not seem in the least to mind this 
wholesale disclosure of his somewhat awkward affairs. And 
‘he continued to dress, or to be dressed, alternately swearing 
‘at his valet and talking to Fitzpatrick and to me. 25 
| *You are both of a name,”’ said he. “Let a man but be 
called Richard, and I seem to take to him. I’ faith, I like the ° 
hunchback king, and believe our friend Horry Walpole 1s 
right in defending him, despite Davie Hume. I vow I shall 
like you, Mr. Carvel.” 30 
_ I replied that I certainly hoped so. 
_ “Egad, you come well enough recommended,” he said, pull- 
ing on his breeches. “No, Eiffel, cursed if I go en petit maitre 
‘to-day. How does that strike you for a demi saison, Mr. Buck- 
skin? I wore three of ’em through the customs last year, 35 
and March’s worked olive nightgown tucked under my great- 
coat, and near a dozen pairs of shirts and stockings. And 





302 RICHARD CARVEL 


each of my servants had on near as much. O Lud, we were 
amazing—like beef-eaters or blower pigeons. Sorry you won't 
meet my brother,—he that will-have the title. He’s out of 
town.’ 

s Going on in this discursory haphazard way while he dressed, 
he made me feel much at home. For the young dictator—s6 
Mr. Fitzpatrick informed me afterward—either took to you 
or else he did not, and stood upon no ceremony. After he had 
chosen a coat with a small pattern and his feet had been thrust 

ro into the little red shoes with the high heels, imported by him 
from France, he sent for a hackney-chaise. And the three of 
us drove together to Pall Mall. Mr. Brooks was at the door, 
and bowed from his hips as we entered. 
“A dozen vin de graves, Brooks!”’ cries Mr. Fox, and ushers 
1sme into a dining room, with high curtained windows and 
painted ceiling and chandeliers throwing a glitter of light. 
‘There, at a long table, surrounded by powdered lackeys, sata 
bevy of wits, mostly in blue and silver, with point ruffles, to 
match Mr. Fox’s costume. ‘They greeted my companions 
20 uproariously. It was “Here’s Charles at last!” ‘Howdy, 
Charles!” “Hello, Richard!” and “What have you there! 
a new Caribbee?”’ ‘They made way for Mr. Fox at the head 
of the table, and he took the seat as though it were his right, 
“This is Mr. Richard Carvel, gentlemen, of Carvel Hall, ir 
25 Maryland.” 
They stirred with interest when my name was called, anc 

’ most of them turned in their chairs to look at me. I kney 
well the reason, and felt my face grow hot. Although you 
may read much of the courtesy of that age, there was a dea 

30 of brutal frankness among young men of fashion. 
; Oe Charles, is this he the Beauty rescued from Castl: 
ard! 
A familiar voice relieved my embarrassment. 
“Give the devil his due, Bully. You forget that I had) 

35 hand in that.” 

“Faith, Jack Comyn,” retorted the gentleman addressed 
“you're already famous for clinging to her skirt.” 


t 


ky 


| “UPSTAIRS INTO THE WORLD” 393 


| “But cling to mine, Bully, and we'll all enter the temple 
together. But I bid you welcome, Richard,” said his Lord- 
ship; “you come with two of the most delightful vagabonds 
in the world.” 

| Mr. Fox introduced me in succession to Colonel St. John, s 
‘known in St. James’s Street as the Baptist; to my Lord Bol- 
inebroke, Colonel St. John’s brother, who was more_famil- 
jarly called Bully; to Mr. Fitzpatrick’s brother, the Earl of 
‘Upper Ossory, who had come up to London, so he said, to see 
‘a little Italian dance at the Garden; to Gilly Williams; to 10 
Sir Charles Bunbury, who had married Lady Sarah Lennox, 
Fox’s aunt, the beauty who had come so near to being queen 
‘of all England; to Mr. Storer, who was at once a Caribbee 
and a Crichton; to Mr. Uvedale Price. These I remember, 
but there are more that escape me. Most good-naturedly they 1s 
drank my health in Charles’s vin de graves, at four shillings 
the bottle; and soon I was astonished to find myself launched 
upon the story of my adventures, which they had besought 
‘me to tell them. When I had done, they pledged me again, 
and, beginning to feel at home, I pledged them handsomely 20 
jin return. Then the conversation began. The like of it I 
have never heard anywhere else in the world. There was a 
‘deal that might not be written here, and a deal more that 
‘might, to make these pages sparkle. They went through the 
‘meetings, of course, and thrashed over the list of horses en- 25 
‘tered at Ipswich, and York, and Newmarket, and how many 
were thought to be pulled. Then followed the recent gains 
and losses of each and every individual of the company. 
‘After that there was a roar of merriment over Mr. Storer 
‘cracking mottoes with a certain Lady Jane; and how young 30 
Lord Stavordale, on a wager, tilted the candles and set fire 
‘to the drawing-room at Lady Julia’s drum, the day before. 
‘Mr. Price told of the rage Topham Beauclerk had got Dr. 
Johnson into, by setting down a mark for each oyster the 
‘sage had eaten, and showing him the count. But Mr. Fox, 35 
‘who was the soul of the club, had the best array of any. 
‘He related how he had gone post from Paris to Lyons, to 


i 


304 RICHARD CARVEL 
order, among other things, an embroidered canary waistcoat 
for George Selwyn from Jabot. “ “Et quel dessin, monsieur?? 
“Beetles and frogs, in green. ‘Escarbots! grenouilles!’ he 
cries, with a shriek; ‘Et pour Monsieur Selwyn! Monsieur 

5 Fox badine!’ It came yesterday, by Crawford, and I sent 
it to Chesterfield Street in time for George to wear to the 
Duchess’s. He has been twice to Piccadilly after me, and 
twice here, and swears he will have my heart. And I believe 
he is now gone to Matson in a funk.” 

xo After that they fell upon politics. I knew that Mr. Fox 
was already near the head of the King’s party, and that he 
had just received a substantial reward at his Majesty’s hands; 
and I went not far to guess that every one of these easy-going 
devil- -may-care macaronies was a follower or sympathizer with 

x5 Lord North’s policy. But what | heard was a revelation in- 
deed. I have dignified it by calling it politics. All was 
frankness here amongst friends. ‘There was no attempt made 
to gloss over ugly transactions with a veneer of morality. 
For this much I honoured them. But irresistibly there came 

20into my mind the grand and simple characters of our own 
public men in America, and it made me shudder to think that, 
while they strove honestly for our rights, this was the type 
which opposed them. Motives of personal spite and of per 
sonal gain were laid bare, and even the barter and sale of 

25 offices of trust took place before my very eyes. I was silent, 
though my tongue burned me, until one of the gentlemen, 
thinking me neglected, said:— 

“What a-deuce is to be done with those unruly countrymen 
of yours, Mr. Carvel? Are they likely to be pacified now that 

30 we have taken off all except the tea? You who are of our 
party must lead a sorry life among them. Tell me, do the 
really mean to go as far as rebellion?” 

The blood rushed to my face. ‘4 | 
“It is not a question of tea, sir,” I answered hotly; “ nor 

35 yet of tuppence. It is a question of principle which means 

more to Englishmen than life itself. And we are English- 


men.” a 
4 


rf 


“UPSTAIRS INTO THE WORLD” 305 
I believe I spoke louder than I intended, for a silence 
followed my words. Fox glanced at Comyn, who of all of 
them at the table was not smiling, and said:— 

“T thought you came of a loyalist family, Mr. Carvel.” 
“King George has no more loyal servants than the Ameri-s 
jeans, Mr. Fox, be they Tory or Whig. And he has but to 

jtead our petitions to discover it,” I said. 

| I spoke calmly, but my heart was thumping with excite- 
jment and resentment. The apprehension of the untried is 
apt to be sharp at such moments, and I looked for them to 10 
turn their backs upon me for an impertinent provincial. In- 
‘deed, I think they would have, all save Comyn, had it not been 
for Fox himself. He lighted a pipe, smiled, and began easily, 
quite dispassionately, to address me. 

fr 1 wish you would favour us with your point of view, Mr. rs 
Carvel,’ said he; “for, upon my soul, I know little about the 
subject.” 

" “You know little about the subject, and you in Parlia- 
ment!” I cried. 

This started them all to laughing. Why, I did not then 20 
janderstand. But I was angry enough. 

' “Come, let’s have it!” said he. 

| They drew their chairs closer, some wearing that.smile of 
superiority which to us is the Englishman’s most maddening 
jrait. I did not stop to think twice, or to remember that I 25 
Was pitted against the greatest debater in all England. I was 
to speak that of which I was full, and the heart’s argument 
aeeds no logic to defend it. If it were my last word, I would 
>ronounce it. 

_I began by telling them that the Americans had paid their 30 
Bare of the French war, in blood and money, twice over. 
‘And I had the figures in my memory. Mr. Fox interrupted. 
For ten minutes at a space he spoke, and in all my life I have 
jever talked to a man who had the English of King James’s 
Bible, of Shakespeare, and Milton so wholly at his command. 35 
And his knowledge of history, his classical citations, con- 
founded mel forgot myself in wondering how one who 


ri 





1 


306 RICHARD CARVEL ' 
had lived so fast had acquired such learning. Afterward, 
when I tried to recall what he said, I laughed at his surpris- 
ing ignorance of the question at issue, and wondered where 
my wits could have gone that I allowed myself to be dazzle¢ 

s and turned aside at every corner. As his speech came fastet 
he twisted fact into fiction and fiction into fact, until I must 
needs close my mind and bolt the shucters of it, or he had 
betrayed me into confessing the right of Parliament to quar. 
ter troops among us. Though my head swam, I clung 

10 doggedly to my text. And that was my salvation. He 
grew more excited, and they applauded him. In truth, | 
myself felt near to clapping. And then, as I stared hin 
in the eye, marvelling how a man of such vast powe' 
and ability could stand for such rotten practices, the though 

13came to me (I know not whence) of Saint Paul the 
Apostle. 

“Mr. Fox,’ I said, when he had paused, “‘ before God, dk 
you believe what you are saying?” 

I saw them smiling at my earnestness and simplicity. Fo: 

20 seemed surprised, and laughed evasively,—not heartily a 
was his wont. 

““My dear Mr. Carvel,”’ he said, glancing around the circle 
*yolitical principles are not to be swallowed like religion, bu 
taken rather like medicine, experimentally. If they agre 

25 with you, very good. If not, drop them and try others. W 
are always ready to listen to remedies, here.” 

** Ay, if they agree with you!” I exclaimed. ‘But food fe 
one is poison for another. Do you know what you are doing 
You are pushing home injustice and tyranny to the million: 

30 for the beneftt of the thousands. For 1s it not true, gentlemer 
that the great masses of England are against the measures yo 
impose upon us? ‘Their fight is our fight. They are n 
longer represented in Parliament; we have never been. Taxi 

tion without representation is true of your rotten boroughs: 

3s well as of your vast colonies. You are helping the King 3 

crush freedom abroad in order that he may the more easi) 
break it at home. You are committing a crime. ‘ 


| “UPSTAIRS INTO THE WORLD” 307 


| “T tell you we would give up all we own were the glory or 
jonour of England at stake. And yet you call us rebels, and 
iecuse us of meanness and of parsimony. If you wish money, 
eave the matter to our colonial assemblies, and see how 
‘eadily you will get it. But if you wish war, persist in try-s 
ng to grind the spirit from a people who have in them the 
ride of your own ancestors. Yes, you are estranging the 
solonies, gentlemen. A greater man than I has warned you.” 

| And with that I rose, believing that I had given them all 
nortal offence. To my astonishment several got to their 10 
‘eet in front of me, huzzaing, and Comyn and Lord Ossory 
wasped my hands. And Charles Fox reached out over the 
corner of the table and pulled me back into my chair. 

_ “Bravo, Richard Carvel!” he cried. ‘‘Cursed if I don’t 
‘ove a man who will put up a fight against odds. Who willrs 
stand bluff to what he believes, and won’t be talked out of his 
boots. We won’t quarrel with any such here, my buckskin, | 
tan tell you.” 

_ And that is the simple story, my dears, of the beginning of 
my friendship with one who may rightly be called the Saint 20 
Paul of English politics. He had yet some distance to go, 
alas, ere he was to begin that sturdy battle for the right for 
which his countrymen and ours will always bless him. I 
eave him my hand with a better will than I had ever done 
anything, and we pressed our fingers numb. And his was zs 
not the only hand I clasped. And honest Jack Comyn ordered 
more wine, that they might drink to a speedy reconciliation 
with America. 

_ “A pint bumper to Richard Carvel!” said Mr. Fitzpatrick. 

| I pledged Brooks’s Club in another pint. Upon which they 30 
swore that I was a eood fellow, and that if all American 
Whigs were like me, all cause of quarrel was at an end. Of 
this [ was not so sure, nor could I see that the question had 
been settled one way or another. And that night I had reason 
to thank the Reverend Mr. Allen, for the first and last time in 35 
my life, that I could stand a deal of liquor, and yet not 


roll bottom upward. 


| 
| 


308 RICHARD CARVEL 


The dinner was settled on the Baptist, who paid for it with 
out a murmur. And then we adjourned to the business of thi 
evening. The great drawing-room, lighted by an ee | 
candles, was filled with gayly dressed macarontes, and 

ssound of their laughter and voices in contention ming 
with the pounding of the packs on the mahogany and thi 
rattle of the dice and the ring of the gold pieces. The sigh 
was dazzling, and the noise distracting. Fox had me unde 
his especial care, and I was presented to young gentlemen wh« 
ro bore names that had been the boast of England through th 
centuries. Lands their forebears had won by lance ane 
sword, they were squandering away as fast as ever they could 
I, too, was known. All had heard the romance of the Beauty 
and Castle Yard, and some had listened to Horry Walpolk 
rs tell that foolish story of Goble at Windsor, on which he seemec 
to set such store. They guessed at my weight. They bettec 
upon it. And they wished to know if I could spin Mr 
Brooks, who was scraping his way from table to table. They 
gave me choice of whist, or picquet, or quinze, or hazard. |] 
20 was carried away. Nay, I make no excuse. Tho’ the time: 
were drinking and gaming ones, I had been brought up thatz 
gentleman should do both in moderation. We mounted, some 
dozen of us, to the floor above, and passed along to a room 
of which Fox had the key; and he swung me in on his arm 
25 the others pressing after. And the door was scarce closed and 
locked again, before they began stripping off their clothes 

To my astonishment, Fox handed me a great frieze coat, 
which he bade me don, as the others were doing. Some were 
turning their coats inside out; for luck, said they; and put 

30 ting on footman’s leather guards to save their ruffles. And 
they gave me a hat with a high crown, and a broad brim 
to save my eyes from the candle glare. We were as grotesqué 
a set as ever I laid my eyes upon. But I hasten over the 
scene, which has long become distasteful to me. I mention it 

3s only to show to what heights of folly the young men had 
gone. I recall a gasp when they told me they played for 
rouleaux of ten pounds each, but I took out my pocket-book 





“UPSTAIRS INTO THE WORLD” 309 


as boldly as tho’ I had never played for less, and laid my 
stake upon the board. Fox lost, again and again; but he 
treated his ill-luck with such a raillery of contemptuous wit, 
that we must needs laugh with him. Comyn, too, lost, and at 
supper excused himself, saying that he had promised hiss 
mother, the dowager countess, not to lose more than a quar- 
ter’s income at a sitting. But I won and won, until the fever 
of it got into my blood, and as the first faint light of that 
morning crept into the empty streets, we were still at it, Fox 
vowing that he never waked up until daylight. That the xo 
best things he said in the House came to him at dawn. 


i : q 


‘ 
et oS 


CHAPTER XXXII 


LADY TANKERVILLE S DRUM-MAJOR 


THE rising sun, as he came through the little panes of the 
windows, etched a picture of that room into my brain. I can 
see the twisted candles with their wax smearing the sticks, 
the chairs awry, the tables littered with blackened pipes, and 

s bottles, and spilled wine and tobacco among the dice; and 
the few that were left of my companions, some with dark lines 
under their eyes, all pale, but all gay, unconcerned, witty, and 
cynical; smoothing their ruffles, and brushing the ashes and 
snuff from the pattern of their waistcoats. As we went downs 

10 Stairs, singing a song Mr. Foote had put upon the stage 
that week, they were good enough to declare that I should 
never be permitted to go back to Maryland. That my grand- 
father should buy me a certain borough, which might be had 
for six thousand pounds. 

x5 Lhe drawing-room made a dismal scene, too, after the riot 
and disorder of the night. Sleepy servants were cleaning up 
but Fox vowed that they should bring us yet another bottle 
before going home. So down we sat about the famous old 
round table, Fox fingering the dents the gold had made in the 

20 board, and philosophizing; and reciting ‘Orlando Furioso” in 
the Italian, and Herodotus in the original Greek. Suddenly 
casting his eyes about, they fell upon an ungainly form 
stretched on a lounge, that made us all start. 

“Bully!” he cried; “ll lay you fifty guineas that Mr. 

2s Carvel gets the Beauty, against Chartersea.” 

This roused me. | 

“Nay, Mr. Fox, I beg of you,” I protested, with all the 
vehemence I could muster. ‘Miss Manners must not be writ 
down in such a way.” 


310 





LADY TANKERVILLE’S DRUM-MAJOR 311. 
For answer he snapped his’ fingers at the drowsy Brooks, 
who brought the betting book. 

| “There!” says he; “and there, and there,” turning over 
the pages; “her name adorns a dozen leaves, my fine buck- 
skin. And it will be well to have some truth about her. 5 
|Enter the wager, Brooks.” 

“Hold!” shouts Bolingbroke; “I haven’t accepted.” 

' You may be sure I was in an agony over this desecration, 
which I was so powerless to prevent. But as I was thanking 
my stars that the matter had blown over with Bolingbroke’s 10 
ejection, there occurred a most singular thing. 

; The figure on the lounge, with vast difficulty, sat up. To 
our amazement we beheld the bloated face of the Duke of 
‘Chartersea staring stupidly. 

~ “Damme, Bully, you fefaene bet like tha’!”’ he said. “TIL 1s 
‘take doshen of ’em—doshen, egad. Gimme the book, Brooksh. 
Cursh Fox—lay thousand d—d provinshal never getsh ’er 
—I know—”’ 

I sat very still, serzed-with a loathing beyond my power to 
Bescribe to think that this was the man Mr. Manners was2o 
forcing her to marry. Fox laughed. 

“Help his Grace to his coach,” he said to two of the foot- 
men. 

“Kill fellow firsht!’’ cried his Grace, with his hand on his 
sword, and instantly fell over, and went sound asleep. 25 
“His Grace has sent his coach home, your honour,” said 
one of the men, respectfully. “The duke is very quarrel- 

some, sir.” 

*Put him in a chair, then,” said Charles. 

So they fearfully lifted his Grace, who was too far gone to 30 
resist, and carried him to a chair. And Mr. Fox bribed the 
chairmen with two guineas apiece, which he borrowed from 
me, to set his Grace down amongst the marketwomen at 
Covent Garden. 

The next morning Banks found in my pockets something 35 
beta seven hundred pounds more than I had had the day 

efore. 





312 RICHARD CARVEL a 
I rose late, my head swimming with mains and nicks, a\idl 
combinations of all the numbers under the dozen; debate 
whether or no I would go to Arlington Street, and decided 
that I had not the courage. Comyn settled it by coming in 
s his cabriolet, proposed that we should get the air in the park, 
dine at the Cocoa Tree, and go afterwards to Lady Tanker 
ville s drum-major, where Dolly would undoubtedly be. 
“Now you are here, Richard,”’ said his Lordship, with his 
accustomed bluntness, “and your sea-captain has relieved your 
ro Quixotic conscience, what the deuce do you intend to do? 
Win a thousand pounds every night at Brooks’s, or improve 
your time and do your duty, and get Miss Manners out of his 
Grace’s clutches? I’ll warrant something will come of that 
matter this morning.” 
13 ‘1 hope so,” I said shortly. 
Comyn looked at me sharply. 
“Would you fight him?”’ he asked. 
“If he gave me the chance.” . 
His Lordship whistled. ‘‘Egad, then,”’ said he, “I shall 
20 want to be there to see. In spite of his pudding-bag shape he 
handles the sword as well as any man in England. I have 
crossed with him at Angelo’s. And he has a devilish tricky 
record, Richard.” : 
I said nothing to that. ‘ 
25 ‘Hope you do kill him,”” Comyn continued. ‘‘He deserves 
it richly. But that will be a cursed unpleasant way of set= 
tling the business,—unpleasant for you, unpleasant for her, 
and cursed unpleasant for him, too, I suppose. Can’t you 
think of any other way of getting her? Ask Charles to give 
30 feu rite of campaign. You haven’t any sense, and neither 
ave 
“Hang you, Jack, I have no hopes of getting her,” I ie 
plied, for [ was out of humour with myself that day. In 
spite of what you say, I know she doesn’ t care a brass farth 
35 Ing to marry me, So let’s drop that.” 2 
Comyn made a comic gesture of deprecation. I went on: 
“But I am going to stay here and find out the truth 








| 
a4 





LADY TANKERVILLE’S DRUM-MAJOR © 313 


though it may be a foolish undertaking. And if he is intimi- 
dating Mr. Manners—”’ | 

“You may count on me, and on Charles,” said my Lord 
generously; “and there are some others 1 know of. Gad! 
You made a dozen of friends and admirers by what you said 5° 
last night, Richard. And his Grace has a few enemies. You 
will not lack support.” 

_ We dined very comfortably at the Cocoa Tree, where Comyn 
had made an appointment for me with two as diverting gen- 
tlemen as had ever been my lot to meet. My Lord Carlisle 10 
was the poet and scholar of the little clique which had been 
to Eton with Charles Fox, any member of which (so ’twas 
said) would have died for him. His Lordship, be it remarked 
in passing, was as lively a poet and scholar as can well be 
imagined. He had been recently sobered, so Comyn con- 
fided; which I afterwards discovered meant married. Charles 
Fox’s word for the same was fallen. And I remembered that 
Jack had told me it was to visit Lady Carlisle at Castle How- 
ard that Dorothy was going when she heard of my disappear- 
ance. Comyn’s other guest was Mr. Topham Beauclerk, the 20 
macaroni friend of Dr. Johnson. He, too, had been recently 
married, but appeared no more sobered than his Lordship. 
Mr. Beauclerk’s wife, by the way, was the beautiful Lady 
Diana Spencer, who had been divorced from Lord Boling- 
broke, the Bully I had met the night before. These gentle- 25 
men seemed both well acquainted with Miss Manners, and 
vowed that none but American beauties would ever be the 
fashion in London more. Then we all drove to Lady Tanker- 
ville’s drum-major near Chesterfield House. 

“You will be wanting a word with her when she comes in,” 30 
said Comyn, slyly divining. Poor fellow! I fear that I 
scarcely appreciated his feelings as to Dorothy, or the noble 
unselfishness of his friendship for me. 

_ We sat aside in a recess of the lower hall, watching the 
throng as they passed: haughty dowagers, distorted in lead 35 
and disfigured in silk and feathers nodding at the ceiling; 


ee beaus of threescore or more, carefully mended 


al 


5 


314 RICHARD CARVEL \" 
for the night by their Frenchmen at home; young ladies in 
gay brocades with round skirts and stiff, pear-shaped bodices; 
and youngsters just learning to ogle and to handle their snuff- 
boxes. One by one their names were sent up and solemnly 

*smouthed by the footman on the landing. At length, when we 
had all but given her up, Dorothy arrived. A hood of laven- 
der silk heightened the oval of her face, and out from under 
it crept rebellious wisps of her dark hair. But she was very 
pale, and I noticed for the first time a worn expression that 

1o gave me a twinge of uneasiness. *~Iwas then I caught sight 
of the duke, a surly stamp on his leaden features. And after 
him danced Mr. Manners. Dolly gave a little cry when she 
saw me. 

“Oh! Richard, I am so glad you are here. i was wondering 

15 what had become of you. And Comyn, too.” Whispering to 
me, “Mamma has had a letter from Mrs. Brice; your grand- 
father has been to walk in the garden.” 

“And Grafton?” 
“She said nothing of your uncle,” she replied, with a little 

20 shudder at the name; ‘‘ but wrote that Mr. Carvel was said to 
be better. So there! your conscience need not trouble you for 
remaining. I am sure he would wish you to pay a visit home. 
And I have to scold you, sir. You have not been to Arlington 
Street for three whole days.” 

25 It struck me suddenly that her gayety was the same as that 
she had worn to my birthday party, scarce a year agone. 

“Dolly, you are not well!” I said anxiously. 
She flung her head saucily for answer. In the meantime 
his Grace, talking coldly to Comyn, had been looking unutter- 

30 able thunders at me. J thought of him awaking in the dew 
at Covent Garden, and could scarce keep from. laughing in 
his face. Mr. Marmaduke squirmed to the front. 

“Morning, Richard,”’ he said, with a marked cordialiclt 
“Have you met the Duke of Chartersea? No! Your Grace, 

35 this is Mr. Richard Carvel. His family are dear friends 4 
ours in the colonies. 

To my great surprise, the duke saluted me quite civilly : 


| LADY TANKERVILLE’S DRUM-MAJOR © 315 
| 


But I had the feeling of facing a treacherous bull which 
would gore me as soon as ever my back was turned. He 
jwas always putting me in mind of a bull, with his short neck 
and heavy, hunched shoulders,—and with the ugly tinge of 
red in the whites of his eyes. 
| “Mr. Manners tells me you are to remain awhile in Lon- 
don, Mr. Carvel,”’ he said, in his thick voice. 
I took his meaning’instantly, and replied in kind. 
| “Yes, your Grace, I have some business to attend to here.” 
“Ah,” he answered; “‘then I shall see you again.” 10 
“Probably, sir,” said [. 
His Lordship watched this thrust and parry with an ill- 
‘concealed delight. Dorothy’s face was impassive, expression- 
Tess. As the duke turned to mount the stairs, he stumbled 
clumsily across a young man coming to pay his respects to 15 
‘Miss Manners, and his Grace went sprawling against the wall. 
) “Confound you, sir!”’ he cried. 

For the ducal temper was no respecter of presences. Then 
a title was a title to those born lower, and the young man 
plainly had a vast honour for a coronet. 20 
“T beg your Grace’s pardon,’ * said he. 
“Who the deuce is he?”? demanded the duke petulantly of 
Mr. Manners, thereby setting the poor little man all a-tremble. 

“Why, why—”he replied, searching for his spyglass. 
For an instant Dolly’s eyes shot scorn. Chartersea had 25 
clearly seen and heeded that signal before. 

“The gentleman is a friend of mine,”’ she said. 

Tho’ I were put out of the Garden of Eden as a conse- 
‘quence, I itched to have it out with his Grace then and there. 
I knew that I was bound to come into collision with him 30 
sooner or later. Such, indeed, was my mission in London. 
But Dorothy led the way upstairs, a spot of colour burning 
each of her cheeks. The stream of guests had been arrested 
until the hall was packed, and the curious were peering over 
the rail above. 35 

“Lord, wasn’t she superb!”’ exclaimed Comyn, exultingly, 
as we followed. In the drawing-room the buzzing about the 


§ 


| 





| 
316 RICHARD CARVEL e | 
\ 
card tables was hushed a moment as she went in. But I soon 
lost sight of her, thanks to Comyn. He drew me on from 
group to group, and I was duly presented to a score of Lady 
So-and-sos and honourable misses, most of whom had titl 
5 but little else. Mammas searched their memories, and oa 
denly discovered that they had heard their parents speak of 
my grandfather. But, as it was a fair presumption that most 
colonial gentlemen made a visit home at least once in their 
lives, I did not allow the dust to get into my eyes. I was in- 
ro vited to dinners, and fairly showered with invitations to balls 
and drums and garden parties. I was twitted about the 
Beauty, most often with only a thin coating of amiability 
covering the spite of the remark. In short, if my head had 
not been so heavily laden with other matters, it might well 
15 have become light under the strain. Had I been ambitious to 
enter the arena I should have had but little trouble, since 
eligibility then might be reduced to guineas and another ele- 
ment not moral. I was the only heir of one of the richest 
men in the colony, vouched for by the Manners and taken up 
20 by Mr. Fox and my Lord Comyn. Inquiries are not pushed 
farther. I could not help seeing the hardness of it all, or 
refrain from contrasting my situation with that of the penni- 
less outcast I had been but a little time before. The gilded 
rooms, the hundred yellow candles multiplied by the mirrors, 
2s the powder, the perfume, the jewels,—all put me in mind of 
the poor devils I had left wasting away their lives in Castle 
Yard. They, too, had had their times of prosperity, their 
friends who had faded with the first waning of fortune. Some 
of them had known what it was to be fawned over. And how 
3o many of these careless, flitting men of fashion I looked upon 
could feel the ground firm beneath their feet; or could say 
with certainty what a change of ministers, or one wild night 
at White’s or Almack’s, would bring forth? Verily, one must 
have seen the under side of life to know the upper! ty 
35 Presently I was sought out by Mr. Topham Beaucler aaa 
had heard of the episode below and wished to hear more. He 
swore at the duke. ie 


‘a LADY TANKERVILLE’S DRUM-MAJOR — 317 


“He will be run through some day, and serve him jolly 
tight,” said he. “‘ Bet you twenty pounds Charles Fox does it! 
His Grace knows he has the courage to fight him.”’ 

_ “The courage!”’ I repeated. 

ny es. Angelo says the duke has diabolical skill. And 5s 
then he won't fight fair. He killed young Atwater on a foul, 
you know. Slipped on the wet grass, and Chartersea had him 
pinned before he caught his guard. But there is Lady Di 
acalling, a-calling.” 

! “Do all the women cheat in America too?” asked Topham, 10 

‘as we approached. 

eet thought of my Aunt Caroline, and laughed. 

| “Some,” I answered. 

“They will game, d—n ’em,”’ said Topham, as tho’ he had 
never gamed in his life. “And they will cheat, till a man has rs 
to close his eyes to keep from seeing their pretty hands. And 
they will cry, egad, oh so touchingly, if the luck goes against 
them in spite of it all. Only last week I had to forgive Mrs. 
‘Farnham an hundred guineas. She said she’d lost her Pines § 
money twice over, and was like to have wept her eyes out. 

| Thus primed in Topham’s frank terms, I knew what aia 
‘expect. And I found to my amusement he had not overrun 

ithe truth. I lost like a stoic, saw nothing, and discovered the 

‘straight road to popularity. 

| “The dear things expect us to make it up at the clubs,”’ 25 
whispered he. 

I discovered how he had fallen in love with his wife, Lady 
Diana, and pitied poor Bolingbroke heartily for having lost 
her. She was then in her prime,—a beauty, a wit, and a 
great lady, with a dash of the humanities about her that 30 
brought both men and women to her feet. 

~ “You must come to see me, Mr. Carvel,” said she. ‘‘I wish 
‘to talk to you of Dorothy.” 

_ “Your Ladyship believes me versed in no other subject?”’ I 


asked. 35 
_ “None other worth the mention,” she replied instantly; 


“Topham tells me you can talk horses, and that mystery of 


| 





- ¥, 
318 . RICHARD CARVEL F 
mysteries, American politics. But look at Miss Manners now. 
I’ll warrant she is making Sir Charles see to his laurels, and 
young Stavordale is struck dumb.” | 

I looked up quickly and beheld Dolly surrounded by a can 

5 of admirers. 

“Mark the shot strike!” Lady Di continued, between the 
deals; “that time Chartersea went down. I fancy he is 
bowled over rather often,” she said shyly. “What a brute it 
is. And they say that that little woman she has for a 

1o father imagines a union with the duke will redound to his 

lory.” 
: “They say,’ remarked Mrs. Meynel, sitting next me, “that 
the duke has thumbscrews of some kind on Mr. Manners.” 

““Miss Manners is able to take care of herself,” said 

15 Lopham. 

“On dit, that she has already refused as many dukes as did 
her Grace of Argyle,”’ said Mrs. Meynel. 

I had lost track of the cards, and I knew I was losing pro- 
digiously. But my eyes went back again and again to the 

20 group by the doorway, where Dolly was holding court and dis- 
pensing justice, and perchance injustice. The circle increased. 
Ribands, generals whose chests were covered with medals of 
valour, French noblemen, and foreign ambassadors stopped 
for a word with the Beauty and passed on their way, some 

25 smiling, some reflecting, to make room for others. I over 
heard from the neighbouring tables a spiteful protest that a 
young upstart from the colonies should turn Lady Tanker- 
ville’s drum into a levee. My ears tingled as I listened. But 
not a feather parrot in the carping lot of them could den 

30 that Miss Manners had beauty and wit enough to keep them all 
at bay. Hers was not an English beauty: every line of her 
face and pose of her body proclaimed her of that noble type 
of Maryland women, distinctly American, over which many 
Englishmen before and since have lost their heads and hearts. 

3s‘ Egad!” exclaimed Mr. Storer, who was looking on; “she’ 
already defeated some of the Treasury Bench, and bless m 
if she isn’t rating North himself.” 





LADY TANKERVILLE’S DRUM-MAJOR © 319 


Half the heads in the room were turned toward Miss Man- 

‘ayers, who was exchanging jokes with the Prime Minister of 

= cad 

Great Britain. I saw a corpulent man, ludicrously like the 

‘King’s pictures, with bulging gray eyes that seemed to take 

n nothing. And this was North, upon whose conduct with 5 
the King depended the fate of our America. Good-natured he 

lwas, and his laziness was painfully apparent. He had the 


eputation of going to sleep standing, like a horse. 

“But the Beauty contrives to keep him awake,” said 
Storer. 10 
| “Tf you stay among us, Mr. Carvel,” said Topham, “she will 
zet you a commissionership for the asking.” 

| “Look,” cried Lady Di, “there comes Mr. Fox, the preco- 
tious, the irresistible. Were he in the Bible, we should read 
of him passing the time of day with King Solomon.” 15 
_ “Or instructing Daniel in the art of lion-taming,” put in 
Mrs. Meynel. 

_ There was Mr. Fox in truth, and the Beauty’s face lighted 
up at sight of him. And presently, when Lord North had 
made his bow and passed on, he was seen to lead her out of 2c 
the room, leaving her circle to go to pieces, like an empire 


without a head. 





| 


ciaadall 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


DRURY LANE 


AFTER a night spent in making resolutions, I set out fo 
Arlington Street, my heart beating a march, as it had when 
went thither on my arrival in London. Such was my excite 
ment that I was near to being run over in Piccadilly lik 

5 many another country gentleman, and roundly cursed by 
wagoner for my stupidity. I had a hollow bigness witht 
me, half of joy, half of pain, that sent me onward with eve 
increasing steps and a whirling storm of contradiction 1 in m 
head. Now it was: Dolly loved me in spite of all the grea 

romen in England. Why, otherwise, had she come to th 
sponging-house? Berating myself: had her affection bee 
other than that of a lifelong friendship she would not hay 
come an inch. But why had she made me stay in London 
Why had she spoken soto Comyn? Whatinterpretation migh 
15 be put upon a score of little acts of hers that came a-floodin 
to mind, each a sacred treasure of memory? A lover's inter 
pretation, forsooth. Fie, Richard! what presumption to thin 
that you, a raw lad, should have a chance in such a field 
“You have yet, by dint of hard knocks and buffets, to lear 
20 the world. 

By this I had come in sight of her house, and suddenly | 
trembled like a green horse before a cannon. My courage ra 
out so fast that I was soon left without any, and my legs ha 
carried me as far as St. James’s Church before I could brin 

2s them up. Then I was sure, for the first time, that she di 
not love me. In front of the church I halted, reflecting tha 
I had not remained in England with any hope of it, bu 
rather to discover the truth about Chartersea’s actions, an 
to save her, if it were possible. I turned back once mori 


320 





DRURY LANE 321 


nd now got as far as the knocker, and lifted it as a belfry 
yas striking the hour of noon. I think I would have fled 
igain had not the door been immediately opened. 
| Once more I found myself in the room looking out over the 
Jark, the French windows open to the balcony, the sunlight 5 
owing in with the spring-scented air. On the table was 
ying a little leather book, stamped with gold,—her prayer- 
jiook. Well I remembered it! I opened it, to read: ** Doro- 
‘hy, from her Mother. Annapolis, Christmas, 1768.” The 
jweet vista of the past stretched before my eyes. I saw her, 10 
jm such a May day as this, walking to St. Anne’s under the 
rand old trees, their budding leaves casting a delicate tracery 
‘ther feet. I followed her up the aisle until she disappeared 
fa the high pew, and then I sat beside my grandfather and 
hought of her, nor listened to a word of Mr. Allen’s sermon. 15 
Why had they ever taken her to London? 
| When she came in | sought her face anxiously. She was 
‘all pale; and I thought, despite her smile, that a trace of 
vadness lingered in her eyes. 
’ “At last, sir, you have come,” she said severely. “Sit 20 
lown and give an account of yourself at once. You have been 
dehaving very badly.” 
!-* Dorothy—” 
“Pray don’t ‘Dorothy’ me, sir. But explain where you 
jave been for this week past.” 25 
“But, Dolly—” 
| “You pretend to have some affection for your old playmate, 
dut you do not trouble yourself to come to see her.”’ 


| 


| “Indeed, you do me wrong.” 
| “Do you wrong! You prefer to gallivant about town with 30 © 
Comyn and Charles Fox, and with all those wild gentlemen 
who go to Brooks’s. Nay, I have heard of your goings-on. | 
shall write to Mr. Carvel to-day, and advise him to send for 
E*. And tell him that you won a thousand pounds in one 
mght—” 35 
| “Tt was only seven hundred,” I interrupted sheepishly. I 


. she smiled faintly. 





\ 
} 


322 RICHARD CARVEL 


“And will probably lose twenty thousand before you hay 
done. And I shall say to him that you have dared to mak 
bold rebel speeches to a Lord of the Admiralty and to some 
the King’s supporters. I shall tell your grandfather you ar 

5 disgracing him.” 

“Rebel speeches!” I cried. 

“Yes, rebel speeches at Almack’s. Who ever heard of sue 
a thing! No doubt I shall hear next of your going to. 
drawing-room and instructing his Majesty how to subdue th 

ro Colonies. And then, sir, you will be sent to the Tower, and 
shan’t move a finger to get you out.” 

“Who told you of this, Dolly?” I demanded. 

“Mr. Fox, himself, for one. He thought it so good,—or si 
bad,—that he took me aside last night at Lady Tankerville’s 

15 asked me why I had let you out of Castle Yard, and told me. 
must manage to curb your tongue. I replied that I had abou 
as much influence with you as I have with Dr. Franklin.’ 

I laughed. 

““T saw Fox lead you off,” I said. 

20 “Oh, you did, did you!” she retorted. “But you neve 
once came near me yourself, save when I chanced to meet you 
in the hall, tho’ I was there a full three hours.” 

“How could I!” I exclaimed. ‘You were surrounded by 
prime ministers and ambassadors, and Heaven knows hoy 

25 many other great people.” 

“When you wish to do anything, Richard, you usually fine 
a way. . 

“Nay,” I answered, despairing, “I can never explain any: 
thing to you, Dolly. Your tongue is too quick for mine.” %, 

30 “Why didn’t you go home with your captain?” she askec 
mockingly. ' 2 

“Do you know why I stayed?” ry 

“I suppose because you want to be a gay spark and taste o 
the pleasures of London. That is, what you men are pleasec 

35 to call pleasures. I can think of no other reason.” . 

“There is another,” I said desperately. / | 
“Ah,” said Dolly. And in her old aggravating way she ¢ 





DRURY LANE 323 


ip and stood in the window, looking out over the park. I 
‘ose and stood beside her, my very temples throbbing. 

| “We have no such spring at home,” she said. “But oh, I 
vish I were at Wilmot House to-day!” 

_ “There is another reason,” I repeated. My voice sounded 5 
ar away, like that of another. I saw the colour come into 
ier cheeks again, slowly. The southwest wind, with a whiff 
if channel eile in it, blew the curtains at our backs. 

» “You have a conscience, Richard,” she said gently, without 
urning. “So few of us have.” 10 

I was surprised. Nor did I know what to make of that: 
there were so many meanings. 
| “You are wild,” she continued, “‘and impulsive, as they say 
rour father was. But he was a man I should have honoured. 
Te stood firm beside his friends. He made his enemies fear r5 
um. All strong men must have enemies, I suppose. ‘They 
nust make them.” 
| I looked at her, troubled, puzzled, but burning at her praise 
of Captain Jack. 
| “Dolly,” I cried, “you are not well. Why won’t you come 20 
yack to Maryland?”’ 

She did not reply to that. Then she faced me suddenly. 
“Richard, I know now why you insisted upon going Bae 
“twas because you would not desert your sea-captain. Comyn 
ind Mr. Fox have told me, and they admire you for it as 25 
much as I.” 

What language is worthy to describe her as she was then in 
that pose, with her head high, as she was wont to ride over 
the field after the hounds. Hers was in truth no beauty of 
itone, but the beauty of force,—of life itself. 30 

“Dorothy,” I cried; ‘Dorothy, I stayed because I love 
you. There, I have said it again, what has not passed my lips 
ance we were children. What has been in my heart ever 
ance.” 
| Istopped, awed. For she had stepped back, out on the bal- 35 
cony. She hid her head in her hands, and I saw her breast 
shaken as with sobs. I waited what seemed a day,—a year. 


‘a 








324 RICHARD CARVEL a 


Then she raised her face and looked at me through the eae 
shining in her eyes. 

“Richard, ” she said sadly, ““why, why did you ever tel 
me? Why can we not always be playmates?” 

5 The words I tried to say choked me. I could not speak i 
sorrow, for very bitterness. And yet I might have known! ] 
dared not look at her again. i 

“Dear Richard,”’ I heard her say, ‘‘God alone understands 
how it hurts me to give you pain. Had I only foreseen—” — 

10 “Had you only foreseen,”’ I said quickly. 

“T should never have let you speak.”’ 

Her words came steadily, but painfully. And when I rail 
my eyes she met them bravely. 

“You must have seen,”’ I cried. “‘ These years I have loval 

1s you, nor could I have hidden it if I had wished. But I have 
little to offer you,”’ I went on cruelly, for I knew not what ] 
said; “you who may have English lands and titles for the 
consenting. I was a fool.” 

Her tears started again. And at sight of them I was 

20 seized with such remorse that I could have bitten my tongue 
in two. 

“Forgive me, Dorothy, if you can,” I implored. “I did not 
mean it. Nor did I presume to think you loved me. I have 
adored,—I shall be content to adore from far below. And ] 

25 stayed, Al stayed that I might save you if a danger threat 
ened.’ ir 

“Danger!”’ she exclaimed, catching her breath. t 

“IT will come to the point,” I said. “I stayed to save you 
from the Duke of Chartersea.”’ 

30 She grasped the balcony rail, and I think would have fallen 
but for my arm. Then she straightened, and only the quiver 
of her lip marked the effort. 

“To save me from the Duke of Chartersea?”’ she said, se 
coldly that my conviction was shaken. “Explain yourself, 

35 SIT.” 

“You cannot love him!” I cried, amazed. 

She flashed upon me a glance I shall never forget. 


my! 
4 





| DRURY LANE 325 


“Richard Carvel,” she said, “you have gone too far. 
‘hough you have been my friend all my life, there are some 
hings which even you cannot say to me.” 

And she left me abruptly and went into the house, her head 
ung back. And I followed in a tumult of mortification and 5 
rounded pride, in such a state of dejection that I wished I had 
jever been born. But hers was a nature of surprises, and im- 
ulsive, like my own. Beside the cabinet she turned, calm 
gain, all trace of anger vanished from her face. Drawing a 
Jawthorn sprig from a porcelain vase I had given her, she 10 
jut it in my hand. 
| “Let us forget this, Richard,” said she; 
‘ery foolish.” 











‘ 


‘we have both been 


* * *k * 


| Forget, indeed! Unless Heaven had robbed me of reason, 
jad torn the past from me at a single stroke, I could not have rs 
)rgotten. When I reached my lodgings I sent the anxious 
lanks about his business and threw myself in a great chair 
fore the window, the chair she had chosen. Strange to say, 
had no sensation save numbness. The time must have been 
dout two of the clock: I took no account of it. I recall Banks 20 
yming timidly back with the news that two gentlemen had 
illed. I bade him send them away. Would my honour not 
lave Mrs. Marble cook my dinner, and be dressed for Lady 
embroke’s ball? I sent him off again, harshly. 

After a long while the slamming of a coach door roused me, 25 
ad I was straightway seized with such an agony of mind that 
could have cried aloud.. ’Twas like the pain of blood flowing 
ick into a frozen limb. Darkness was fast gathering as I 
ached the street and began to walk madly. Word by word 
rehearsed the scene in the drawing-room over the park, but 30 
‘could not think calmly, for the pain of it. Little by little I 
‘obed, writhing, until far back in my boyhood I was tearing 

| the dead roots of that cherished plant, which was the Hope 
‘Her Love. It had grown with my own life, and now with 

3 death to-day I felt that I had lost all that was dear to me. 35 
hen, 1 in the midst of this abject self-pity, I was stricken with 





oy 
» 
g 


326 RICHARD CARVEL 
shame. I thought of Comyn, who had borne the same misfo; 
tune as a man should. Had his pain been the less because h 
had not loved her from childhood? Like Comyn, I resol 
to labour for her happiness. 

5 What hour of the night it was I know not when a ma 
touched me on the shoulder, and I came to myself with 
start. I was in a narrow street lined by hideous houses, the 
windows glaring with light. Each seemed a skull, with ray 
darting from its grinning eye-holes. Within I caught glimpse 

ro of debauchery that turned me sick. Ten paces away thre 
women and a man were brawling, the low angry tones of h 
voice mingling with the screeches of their Billingsgate. Mu 
fled figures were passing and repassing unconcernedly, som 
entering the houses, others coming out, and a handsome coael 

rs without arms and with a footman in plain livery, lumbere 
along and stopped farther on. All this | remarked before 
took notice of him who had intercepted me, and demande 
what he wanted. 
“Hey, Bill!” he cried with an oath to a man Wh 

20 stood on the steps opposite; “‘’ere’s a soft un as has put ” 

sins t 
7 The man responded, and behind him came two more of tt 
same feather, and suddenly I found myself surrounded by a 
ill-smelling crowd of flashy men and tawdry women. The 

25 jostled me, and I reached for my sword, to make the discover 
that I had forgotten it. Regaining my full senses, I struc 
the man nearest me a blow that sent him sprawling j 
the dirt. A blade gleamed under the sickly light of the fis! 
oil lamp overhead, ~ but a man crashed through from behin 

3oand caught the rufhan’s sword-arm and flung him back | 
the kennel. + 

“The watch!” he cried, “the watch!” 
They vanished like rats into their holes at the shout, le 
ing me standing alone with him. The affair had comely 

35 gone so quickly | that I scarce caught my breath. 

‘Pardon, sir,’ he said, knuckling, ‘ ‘but I followed yo 
It was Banks. For a second time he had given me a 





DRURY LANE a27 


‘ting example of his faithfulness. I forgot that he was my 
vant, and | caught his hand and pressed it. 

*You have saved my life at the risk of your own,”’ I said; 
shall not forget it.” 

But Banks had been too well trained to lose sight of his 5 
sition. He merely tipped his hat again and said imperturb- 

| ae get out of here, your honour. They'll be coming 
un directly.”’ 

‘Where are we?”’ I asked. 10 
“Drury Lane, sir,”’ he replied, giving me just the corner of 
dance; “shall I fetch a coach, sir?” 

No, I preferred to walk. Before we had turned into Long 
re I had seen all of this Sodom of London that it should be 
‘en a man to see, if indeed we must behold some of the 1s 
stiality of this world. Here alone, in the great city, high 

d low were met equal. Sin levels rank. The devil makes 
‘choice between my lord and his kitchen wench who has 
ae astray. Here, in Sodom, painted vice had lain for an 
ndred years and bred half the crime of a century. How 20 
my souls had gone hence in that time to meet their Maker! 
me of these brazen creatures who leered at me had known 
w long ago!—a peaceful home and a mother’s love; had 
en lured in their innocence to this place of horrors, never to 
ve it until death mercifully overtakes them. Others, hav- 25 
© fallen, had been driven hither by a cruel world that 
alters all save the helpless, that forgives all save the truly 
mitent. I shuddered as I thought of Mr. Hogarth’s prints, 
lich, in the library in Marlboro’ Street at home, had had 
little meaning for me. Verily he had painted no worse 30 
an the reality. 

As I strode homeward, my own sorrow subdued by the 
2ater sorrow I| had looked upon, the craving I had had to be 
me was gone, and I would have locked arms with a turnspit. 
valled to Banks, who was behind at a respectful distance, 35 
d bade him come talk to me. His presence of mind in call- 
mn the watch had made even a greater impression upon me 




















328 RICHARD CARVEL . 
than his bravery. I told him that he sh:ould have ten’ pound 
and an increase of wages. And | asked him where I had g 
after leaving Dover Street, and why he had followed me. + 
answered this latter question first. He had seen gentleme 

5 the same state, or something like it, before: his fordshill 
late master, after he had fought with Mr. Onslow, of tl 
Guards, and Sir Edward Minturn, when he had lost 4 
inheritance and a reversion at Brooks’s, and was forcelll 
give over his engagement to marry the Honourable Mi 

Io Swift. 

“Lord, sir,” he said, ‘‘but that was a sad case, as set 
London agog. And Sir Edward shot hisself at Portsmout 
not a se’nnight after.” 

And he relapsed into silence, no doubt longing to ask dl 

15 cause of my own affliction. Presently he surprised me 6 
saying :— 

‘““And I might make so bold, Mr. Carvel, I would like 
tell your honour something.” 

I nodded. And he hawed awhile and then burst out:— 

20 ‘Your honour must know then that I belongs to the foo 
man’s club in Berkeley Square, where I meets all the servan 
o’ quality—”’ 

“Yes,” I said, wondering what footman’s tale he had to tel 

“And Whipple, he’s a hintmate o’ mine, sir.”” He stoppe 

25 again. 

”* And who may Whipple be?”’ 

“With submission, sir. Whipple’s his Grace 0’ Chartenial 
man—and, you'll forgive me, sir—Whipple owns his Gra 
is prodigious ugly, an’ killed young Mr. Atwater unfair, som 

3o think. Whipple says he would give notice had he not pam 
ised the old duke—" 

‘“Drat Whipple!” I cried. 

“Yes, sir. Lo be sure, sir. His Grace was in a bloody ra 
when he found hisself in a fruit bin at Covent Garding. 
35 two redbreasts had carried him to the round house, sir, a 4 
they discovered his title. An’ since his Grace ha’ said tim 











an’ time afore Whipple, that he’ll ha’ Mr. Carvel’s heart fc 


“ai 
¥ 





DRURY LANE 329 


iat, and has called you most disgustin’ bad names, sir. An” 
/hipple he says to me: ‘Banks, drop your marster a word, 
y you get the chance. His Grace’ll speak him fair to’s 
ice, but let him look behind him.’ ”’ 

“T thank you again, Banks. I shall bear in mind your 5 
svotion,”’ I replied. “But I had nothing to do with sending 
ie duke to Convent Garden.” 

“Ay, sir, so I tells Whipple.” 

Pray, how did you know?” I demanded curiously. 

“Lord, sir! All the servants at Almack’s is friends 0’ 10 
ime,” says he. “But Whipple declares his Grace will be 
vorn you did it, sir, tho’ the Lord Mayor hisself made depo- 
tion twas not.” 

“Then mark me, Banks, you are not to talk of this.’ 

“Oh, Lord, no, your honour,” he said, as he fell back. But 15 
was not so sure of his discretion as of his loyalty. 

And so | was led to perceive that I was not to be the only 
reressor in the struggle that was to come. That his Grace 
d me the honour to look upon me as an obstacle. And that 
2 intended to seize the first opportunity to make way with 20 
‘e, by fair means or foul. 


3 





inet > 


tates 


CHAPTER XXXIV 3 ; 
HIS GRACE MAKES ADVANCES + 


THE next morning I began casting about as to what 
should do next. There was no longer. any chance of gettin 
at the secret from Dorothy, if secret there were. Whilst 
am ruminating comes a great battling at the street doo 

sand Jack Comyn blew in like a gust of wind, rating f 
soundly for being a lout and a blockhead. 

“Zooks!”’ he cried, “1 danced the soles off my shoes tr) 
ing to get in here yesterday, and I hear you were moping a 
the time, and paid me no more attention than I had been | 

ro dog scratching at the door. What! and have you fallen ou! 
with my lady?” 

I confessed the whole matter to him. He was not to b 
resisted. He called to Banks for a cogue of Nantsey, an 
swore amazingly at what he was pleased to term the 

15 scrutability of woman, offering up consolation by the os | 
sale. The incident, he said, but strengthened his convictio 
that Mr. Manners had appealed to Dorothy to save hir 
“And then,” added his Lordship, facing me with absolut 
fierceness, “and then, Richard, why the ‘devi did she weep: 

20 Lhere were no tears when | made my avowal. I tell you 
man, that the whole thing points but the one way. She | 
you. I swear it by the rood.” | 

I could not help laughing, and he stood looking at me wit] 
such whimsical expression ‘that I rose and flung my arm 

25 around him. 

“Jack, Jack!” I cried, “what a fraud you are! Do 
remember the argument you used when you had got me out’ 
the sponging-house? Quoting you, all I had to do was to 
Dorothy to the proof, and she would toss Mr. Marmaduke 


339 











HIS GRACE MAKES ADVANCES 331 





is honour broadcast. Now I have confessed myself, and what 
the result? Nay, your theory is gone up in vapour.’ 
! “Then why,” cried his Lordship, hotly, “why before refus- 
jig me did she demand to know whether you had been in 
ite with Patty Swain? *Sdeath! you put me in mind of as 
oman upon stilts—a man has always to be walking alongside 
ler with encouragement handy. And when a proud creature 
ich as your young lady breaks down as she hath done, ’tis 
jear as skylight there is something wrong. And as for Mr. 
fanners, Hare overheard a part of a pow-wow ’twixt him and 10 
he duke at the Bedford Arms,—and Chartersea has all but 
wned in some of his drunken fits that our little fop is in his 
ower.’ 
'“Then she is in love with some one else,”’ I said. 
| *T tell you she is not,’ said Comyn, still more emphatically; rs 
and you can write that down in red in your table book. Gos- 
ip has never been able to connect her name with that of any 
jan save yours, when she went for you in Castle Yard. And, 
mini, gossip is like water, and will get in if a crack shows. 
Vhen the Marquis of Wells was going to Arlington Street 20 
nce every day, she sent him about his business ina fortnight.” 
| Despite Comyn’s most unselfish optimism, I could see no 
ght. And in the recklessness that so often besets youngsters 
“my temper, on like occasions, | went off to Newmarket 
ext day with Mr. Fox and Lord Ossory, in his Lordship’s 2s 
ravelling-chaise and four. I spent a very gay week trying 
0 forget Miss Dolly. I was the loser by some three hundred 
‘ounds, in addition to what | expended and loaned to Mr. Fox. 
‘his young gentleman was then beginning to accumulate at 
Jewmarket a most execrable stud. He lost prodigiously, but 30 
eemed in no wise disturbed thereby. I have never known a 
fan who took his ill-luck with such a stoical nonchalance. 
to t so while the heat was on. As I write, a most ridicu- 
dus recollection rises of Charles dragging his Lordship and 
ne and all who were with him to that part of the course 35 
vhere the race was highest, where he would act like a mad- 
| blowing and perspiring, and whipping and swearing all 











332 RICHARD CARVEL 


at a time, and rising up and down as if the horse was throw: 
ing him. 

‘At Newmarket I had the good—or ill—fortune to mee’ 
that incorrigible rake and profligate, my Lord of March anc 

5 Ruglen. For him the Goddess of Chance had smiled, and hy 
was in the most complaisant humour. I was presented to hi: 
Grace, the Duke of Grafton, whose name I had no reason 4 
love, and invited to Wakefield Lodge. We went instead, 
Fox and I, to Ampthill, Lord Ossory’ s seat, with a meill 

10 troop. And then we had more racing; and whist and quinz 
and pharaoh and hazard, until I was obliged to write anothe 
draft upon Mr. Dix to settle the vails; and picquet in th 
travelling-chaise all the way to London. Dining at Brooks’s 
we encountered Fitzpatrick and Comyn and my Lord Car 

t5 lisle. 

“Now how much has Charles borrowed of you, Mr. Carvel? 
demanded Fitzpatrick, as we took our seats. 

“Tl lay ten guineas that Charles has him mortgaged thi 
day month, though he owns as much land as William Penn 

20 and is as rich as Fordyce.” 

Comyn demanded where the devil I had been, though h| 
knew perfectly. He was uncommonly silent during dinnet| 
and then asked me if I had heard the news. I told him [ hai 
heard none. He took me by the sleeve, to the quiet amuse 

25 ment of the company, and led me aside. 

“Curse you, Richard,” says he; ‘“you have put me in sue 
a temper that I vow I’ll fling you over. You profess to lov 
her, and yet you go getting Newmarket and carousing t 
Ampthill when she 1s ill.” 

30 TL I said, catching my breath. \ 

“Ay! That hurts, does it? Yes, ill, I say. She wa 
missed at Lady Pembroke’s that Friday you had the scen 
with her, and at Lady Ailesbury’s on Saturday. On Monda 
morning, when I come to you for tidings, you are off watchin 

35 Charles make an ass of himself at Newmakieaa 

‘And how is she now, Comyn?” I asked, catching him b 

the arm. ¥ 





t 
ict 
hy 


HIS GRACE MAKES ADVANCES 333 


“You may go yourself and see, and be cursed, Richard Car- 
el. She is in trouble, and you are pleasure-seeking in the 
ountry. Damme! you deserve richly to lose her.” 

Calling for my greatcoat, and paying no heed to the jeers 
f the company for leaving before the toasts and the play, Is 
uirly ran to Arlington Street. I was ina passion of remorse. 
Jomyn had been but just. Granting, indeed, that she had 
fused to marry me, was that any reason why I should desert 
ay lifelong friend and playmate: A hundred little tokens of 
er affection for me rose to mind, and last of all that rescue ro 
rom Castle Yard in the face of all Mayfair. And in that 
our of darkness the conviction that something was wrong 
ame back upon me with redoubled force. Her lack of colour, 
er feverish actions, and the growing slightness of her figure 
ll gave me a pang, as I connected them with that scene on rs 
he balcony over the park. 

The house was darkened, and a coach was in front of it. 

“Yessir,” said the footman, ‘‘ Miss Manners has been quite 
I. She is now some better, and Dr. James is with her. Mrs. 
Manners begs company will excuse her.” 20 

And Mr. Marmaduke? The man said, with as near a grin 
s he ever got, that the marster was gone to Mrs. Cornelys’s 
ssembly. As I turned away, sick at heart, the physician, in 
lis tie-wig and scarlet cloak, came out, and I stopped him. 
le was a testy man, and struck the stone an impatient blow 2s 
vith his staff. 

*°Od’s life, sir. I am besieged day and night by you 
roung gentlemen. I begin to think of sending a daily card 
o Almack’s. 

“Sir, I am an old friend of Miss Manners,” I replied, 30 
‘having grown up with her in Maryland—” 

“Are you Mr. Carvel?” he demanded abruptly, taking his 
iat from his arm. 

“Yes,” I answered, surprised. In the gleam of the portico 
anthorn he Pe vinized me for several seconds. 35 
“There are some troubles of the mind which are beyond 
he power of physic to remedy, Mr. Carvel,” said he. “‘She 

t 
= 





334 | RICHARD. CARVEL \- 










has mentioned your name sir, and you are to judge of m 
meaning. Your most obedient, sir. Good night, sir.” ; 
And he got into his coach, leaving me standing where 
was, bewildered. a 

s That same fear of being alone, which has driven man ee 
man to his cups, sent me back to Brooks’s for company. — 
found Fox and Comyn seated at a table in the corner of th 
drawing-room, for once not playing, but talking earnestly 
Their expressions when they saw me betrayed what my ow 
10 face must have been. t 
What is it?” cried Comyn, half rising; ‘is she—is she -’ 
““No, she is better,” I said. 

He looked relieved. 7 
“You must have frightened him badly, Jack,” said Fox 

1s I flung myself into a chair, and Fox proposed whist, some 
thing unusual for him. Comyn called for cards, and va 
about to go in search of a fourth, when we all three caugh 
sight of the Duke of Chartersea in the door, surveying th 
room with a cold leisure. His eye paused when in line witl 
20 us, and we were seized with astonishment to behold him mak 
ing in our direction. ; 
“Squints!” exclaimed Mr. Fox, “now what the devil ar 

the hound want?” i 
“To pull your nose for sending him to market,” my Lorc 

25 suggested. i 
Fox laughed coolly. | 
‘‘Lay you twenty he doesn’t, Jack,” he said. + 

His Grace plainly had some business with us, and I hoped 

he was coming to force the fighting. The pieces had ceased 
so to rattle on the round mahogany table, and every head in t 
room seemed turned our way, for the Covent Garden story 
was well known. Chartersea laid his hand on the back of 
our fourth chair, greeted us with some ceremony, and said 
something which, under the circumstances, was almost ur 
3s heard of in that day:— 


“If you stand in need of one, gentlemen, I should dee 
an honour.” . 














HIS GRACE MAKES ADVANCES - = 335 


The situation had in it enough spice for all of us. We 
welcomed him with alacrity. The cards were cut, and it fell 
to his Grace to deal, which he did very prettily, despite his 
heavy hands. He drew Charles Fox, and they won steadily. 
The conversation between deals was anywhere; on the virtue s 
of Morello cherries for the gout, to which his Grace was 
already subject; on Mr. Fox’s Ariel, and why he had not 
carried Sandwich’s cup at Newmarket; on the advisability of 
putting three-year-olds on the track; in short, on a dozen 
jsmall topics of the kind. At length, when Comyn and I had 10 
Tost some fifty pounds between us, Chartersea threw down the 
cards. 
| “My coach waits to-night, gentlemen,” said he, with some 
‘sort of an accent that did not escape us. “‘It would give me 


the greatest pleasure and you will sup with me in Hanover zs 
Square.” 








CHAPTER XXXV { 
IN WHICH MY LORD BALTIMORE APPEARS . 


His Grace’s offer was accepted with a readiness he could. 
scarce have expected, and we all left the room in the midst 
of a buzz of comment. We knew well that the matter was. 
not so haphazard as it appeared, and on the way to Hanover 

s Square Comyn more than once stepped on my toe, and 1 
answered the pressure. Our coats and canes were taken by 
the duke’s lackeys whén we arrived. We were shown over 
the house. Until now—so his Grace informed us—it had not 
been changed since the time of the fourth duke, who, as we 

ro doubtless knew, had been an ardent supporter of the Han- 
overian succession. The rooms were high-panelled and fur 
nished in the German style, as was the fashion when the 
Square was built. But some were stripped and littered with 
scaffolding and plaster, new and costly marble mantels were 
15 replacing the wood, and an Italian of some renown was deco- 
rating the ceilings. His Grace appeared to be at some pains 
that the significance of these improvements should not be lost 
upon us; was constantly appealing to Mr. Fox’s taste on this 
or that feature. But those fishy eyes of his were so alert that 
20 we had not even opportunity to wink. It was wholly patent, 
in brief, that the Duke of Chartersea meant to be married, 
and had brought Charles and Comyn hither with a purpose. 
For me he would have put himself out not an inch had he not 
understood that my support came from those quarters. f 
25 He tempered off this exhibition by showing us a collection 
of pottery famous in England, that had belonged to the fifth 
duke, his father. Every piece of it, by the way, afterwards 
brought an enormous sum at auction. Supper was served in 
a warm little room of oak. The game was from Derresle 


336 








MY LORD BALTIMORE APPEARS 337 


Manor, the duke’s Nottinghamshire seat, and the wine, so he 
told us, was some of fifty bottles of rare Chinon he had in- 
herited. Melted rubies it was indeed, of the sort which had 
quickened the blood of many a royal gathering at Blois and 
Amboise and Chenonceaux,—the distilled peasant song of the 5 
Loire valley. In it many a careworn crown had tasted the 
purer happiness of the lowly. Our restraint gave way under 
its influence. His grace lost for the moment his deformities, 
and Mr. Fox made us laugh until our sides ached again. His 
Lordship told many a capital yarn, and my own wit was after- 10 
wards said to be astonishing, though I can recall none of it to 
support the afhrmation. 

Not a word or even a hint of Dorothy had been uttered, 
nor did Chartersea so much as refer to his Covent Garden 
experience. At length, when some half dozen of the wine was 15 
gone, and the big oak clock had struck two, the talk lapsed. 
It was Charles Fox, of course, who threw the spark into the 
powder box. 

“We were speaking of hunting, Chartersea,”’ he said. HA 
you ever know George Wrottlesey, of the Suffolk branch?” 2 

“No,” said his Grace, very innocent. 

“No! ’Od’s whips and spurs, I’ll be sworn I never saw a 
man to beat him for reckless riding. He would take five bars 
any time, egad, and sit any colt that was ever foaled. The 
Wrottleseys were poor as weavers then, with the Jews coming 25 
‘down in the Wagon from London and hanging round the hall 
gates. But the old squire had plenty of good hunters in the 
stables, and haunches on the board, and a Téellanchat waa like 
the widow’s cruse of oil, or barrel ‘of meal—ori whatever she 
had. All the old man had to do to lose a guinea was to lay it 30 
on a card. He never nicked in his life, so they say. Well, 

oung George got after a rich tea-merchant’s daughter who 
had come into the country near by. ’Slife! she was a saucy 
jade, and devilish pretty. Such a face! so Stavordale vowed, 
and such a neck! and such eyes! so innocent, so ravishingly 35 
mnocent. But she knew cursed well George was after 
the bank deposit, and kept him galloping. And when he 


i 


338 RICHARD CARVEL 
got a view, halloa, egad! she was stole away again, and no 
scent. ; 

“One morning George was out after the hounds with 
Stavordale, who told me the story, and a lot of fellows who 
shad come over from Newmarket. He was upon Aftermath, 
the horse that Foley bought for five hundred pounds and was 
a colt then. Of course he left the field out of sight behind. 
He made for a gap in the park wall (faith! there was no lack 
of ’em), but the colt refused, and over went George and 
ro plumped into a cart of winter apples some farmer’s sot was 
taking to Bury Saint Edmunds to market. The fall knocked 
the sense out of George, for he hasn’t much, and Stavordale 
thinks he must have struck a stake as he went in. Anyway, 
the apples rolled over on top of him, and the drunkard on the 
rs Seat never woke up, 1’ faith. And so they came to town. 
“It so chanced, egad, that the devil sent Miss Tea Mer- 
chant to Bury to buy apples. She amused hers:lf at playing 
country gentlewoman while papa worked all week in the city, 
She saw the cart in the market, and ate three (for she had the 

20 health of a barmaid), and bid in the load, and George with it. 
*Pon my soul! she did. They found his boots first. And the 
lady said, before all the grinning Johns and Willums, that 
since she had bought him she supposed she would have to keep 
him. And, by Gad’s life! she has got him yet, which is a deal 

25 stranger.” ‘4 

Even the duke laughed. For, as Fox told it} the story was 
irresistible. But it came as near to being a wanton insult as 
a reference to his Grace’s own episode might. ‘The red came 
slowly back into his eye. Fox stared vacantly, as was his 

30 habit when he had done or said something especially daring, 
And Comyn and | waited, straining and expectant, like boys 
who have prodded a wild beast and stand ready for the sprin 7 
There was a metallic ring in the duke’s voice as he spoke. 

“T have heard, Mr. Carvel, that you can ride any mount | 

35 offered you.” 

Od’, and so he can!” cried Jack. “TIl take oath 
that.” 









MY LORD BALTIMORE APPEARS 339 


“T will lay you an hundred guineas, my Lord,” says his 
Grace, very off-hand, “that Mr. Carvel does not sit Balti- 
more’s Pollux above twenty minutes.” 

“Done!”’ says Jack, before I could draw breath. 

**1’ll take your Grace for another hundred,”’ added Mr. Fox, s 
calmly. 

“It seems to me, your Grace,” I cried, angry all at once, 
“it seems to me that I am the one to whom you should ad- 
dress your wagers. I am not a jockey, to be put up at your 
whim, and to give you the chance to lose money.” ae 

Chartersea swung around my way. 

“Your pardon, Mr. Carvel,”’ said he, very coolly, very po- 
litely; “yours is the choice of the wager. And you reject it, 
the others must be called off.” 

“Slife! I double it!’ I said hotly, “provided the horse zs 
is alive, and will stand up.” 

“Devilish yell put, Richard!” Mr. Fox exclaimed, casting 
off his restraint. 

“T give you my word the horse is alive, sir,”’ he answered, 
with a mock bow; ‘“’twas only yesterday that he killed his 25 
groom, at Hampstead.” 

A few moments of silence followed this revelation. It was 
Charles Fox who spoke first. 

“‘T make no doubt that your Grace, as a man of honour,’”’— 
he emphasized the word forcibly,—‘‘will not refuse to ride 25 
the horse for another twenty minutes, provided Mr. Carvel is 
successful. And I will lay your Grace another hundred that 
you are thrown, or run away with.” 

Truly, to cope with a wit like Mr. Fox’s, the duke had need 
for a longer head. He grew livid as he perceived how neatly 30 
he had been snared in his own trap. 

- “Done!” he cried loudly; “done, gentlemen. It only re- 
mains to hit upon time and place for the contest. I go to 
York to-morrow, to be back this day fortnight. And if you 
will do me the favour of arranging with Baltimore for the 3; 
horse, I shall be obliged. . I believe he intends selling it to 
Astley, the showman.” | 





340 RICHARD CARVEL 


“And are we to keep it?”’ asks Mr. Fox. 

“T am dealing with'men of honour,” says the duke, with a 
bow: ‘‘I need have no better assurance that the horse will not 
be ridden in the interval.”’ 

5 ‘’Od so!”’ said Comyn, when we were out; ‘‘very hand- 
some of him. But 1 would not say as much for his 
Grace.” 

And Mr. Fox declared that the duke was no coward, but all 
other epithets known might be called him. “A very diverting 

ro evening, Richard,” said he; “‘let’s to your apartments and 
have a bowl, and talk it over.”’ And thither we went. 


I did not sleep much that night, but *twas of Dolly I 
thought rather than of Chartersea. I was abroad early, and 
over to inquire in Arlington Street, where I found she had 

15 passed a good night. And I sent Banks a-hunting for some 
violets to send her, for | knew she loved that flower. 

Between ten and eleven Mr. Fox and Comyn and I set out 
for Baltimore House. When you go to London, my dears, you 
will find a vast difference in the neighbourhood of Bloomsbury 

zo from what it was that May morning in 1770. Great Russell 
Street was all a sweet fragrance of gardens, mingling with the 
smell of the fields from the open country to the north. We 
drove past red Montagu House with its stone facings and 
dome, like a French hétel, and the cluster of buildings at its 
25 great gate. It had been then for over a decade the British 
Museum. The ground behind it was a great resort for Lon- 
doners of that day. Many a sad affair was fought there, but 
on that morning we saw a merry party on their way to play 
prisoner’s base. Then we came to the gardens in front of 
30 Bedford House, which are now Bloomsbury Square. For my 
part I preferred this latter mansion to the French creation 
by its side, and admired its long and graceful lines. Its win- 
dows commanded a sweep from Holburn on the south to 
Highgate on the north. To the east of it, along Southampton 
35 Row, a few great houses had gone up or were building; and 
at the far end of that was Baltimore House, overlooking her 


| 


MY LORD BALTIMORE APPEARS 341 
Grace of Bedford’s gardens. Beyond, Lamb’s Conduit Fields 


stretched away to the countryside. 

I own I had a lively curiosity to see that lordly ruler, the 
proprietor of our province, whose birthday we celebrated after 
his Majesty’s. Had I not been in a great measure prepared, 5 
I should have had a revulsion indeed. 

When he heard that Mr. Fox and my Lord Comyn were 
below stairs he gave orders to show them up to his bedroom, 
where he received us in a nightgown embroidered with 
oranges. My Lord Baltimore, alas! was not much to see. He 10 
did not make the figure a ruler should as he sat in his easy 
chair, and whined and cursed his Swiss. He was scarce a 
year over forty and he had all but run his race. Dissipation 
and corrosion had set their seal upon him, had stamped his 
yellow face with crow’s feet and blotted it with pimples. But 15 
then the glimpse of a fine gentleman just out of bed of a 
morning, before he is made for the day, is unfair. 

“Morning, Charles! Howdy, Jack!” said his Lordship, 
apathetically. “Glad to know you, Mr. Carvel. Heard of 
your family. ’Slife! Wish there were more like ’em in the 20 
province.” 

This sentiment not sitting very well upon his Lordship, I 
bowed, and said nothing. 

“By the bye,” he continued, pouring out his chocolate into 
the dish, “I sent a damned rake of a parson out there some 25 
years gone. Handsome devil, too. Never seen his match with 
the women, egad. ’Od’s fish—”’ he leered. And then added 
with an oath and a nod and a vile remark: “ Married three 
times, to my knowledge. Carried off dozen or so more. Some 
of ’em for me. Many a good night I’ve had with him. Drank 30 
between us one evening at Essex’s gallon and half Champagne 
and Burgundy apiece. He got to know too much, y’ know,” 
he concluded, with a wicked wink. “‘Had to buy him up— 
pack him off.” 

_ “His name, Fred?’’ said Comyn, with a smile at me. 35 

“?*Sdeath! That’s it. Trouble to remember. Damned if I 
ean think.” And he repeated this remark over and over. 


e 





342 RICHARD CARVEL | . i 


* Allen?” said Comyn. a 
“Yes,” said Baltimore; “Allen. And egad I think hell 
find hell a hotter place than me. You know him, Mr. Carvel 2 
“Yes,” I replied. I said no more. I make no . Bue 
s when I avow I was never so disgusted in my life. But as 
looked upon him, haggard and worn, with retribution so ne; 
at hand, I had no words to protest or condemn, | 
Baltimore gave a hollow mirthless laugh, stopped short, and 
looked at Charles Fox. 
ro “Curse you, Charles! I suppose you are after that litle 
matter | owe you for quinze. ; 
“Damn the little matter!” said Fox. “Come, get you pers 
fumed and dressed, and order up some of your Tokay con 






wait. I have to go to St. Stephens. Mr. Carvel has come 
zs buy your horse Pollux. He has bet Chartersea two hundr 
guineas he rides him for twenty minutes.” 4 
“The devil he has!’ cried his Lordship, jaded no longer 
“Why, you must know, Mr. Carvel, there was no groom in my 
stables who would sit him until Foley made me a present 
20 his man, Miller, who started to ride him to Hyde Park. As he 
came out of Great Russell Street, by gad’s life! the horse broke 
and ran out the Tottenham Court Road all the way to Hamps- 
sted. And the fiend picked out a big stone water trough 
and tossed Miller against it. Then they gathered up the frag- 
2; ments. Damme if Dike to see suicide, Mr. Carvel. If Chats 
tersea wants to kill you, let him try it in the fields behind 


33 


Montagu House here. | 

I told his Lordship that I had made the wager, and cou 

not in honour withdraw, though the horse had killed a dozen 
30 grooms. But already he seemed to have lost interest. 
gave a languid pull at the velvet tassel on his bell-rope, o1 
dered the wine; and, being informed that his anteroom below 
was full of people, had them all dismissed with the mes- 
sage that he was engaged upon important affairs. He told 
3s Mr. Fox he had heard of the Jerusalem Chamber, and vowed | 
he would have a like institution. He told me he wished the 
colony of Maryland in hell; that he was worn out with the 









‘a : 
¢ MY LORD BALTIMORE APPEARS 343 


uarrels of Governor Eden and his Assembly, and offered to 
yy a guinea that the Governor’s agent would get to him that 
ay,—will-he, nill-he. I did not think it worth while to 
\rgue with such a man. 

| My Lord took three-quarters of an hour to dress, and swore 5 
lie had not accomplished the feat so quickly in a year. He 
gashed his hands and face in a silver basin, and the scent of 
he soap filled the room. He rated his Swiss for putting 
limnamon upon his ruffles in place of attar of roses, and 
ittempted to regale us the while with some of his choicest 10 
idventures. In more than one of these, by the way, his Grace 
f Chartersea figured. It was Fox who brought him up. 

“See here, Baltimore,” he said, “I’m not squeamish. But 
’m cursed if I like to hear a man who may die any time be- 
ween bottles talk so.” rs 
| His Lordship took the rebuke with an oath, and presently 
yobbled down the stairs of the great and silent house to the 
table court, where two grooms were in waiting with the horse. 
We was an animal of amazing power, about sixteen hands, and 
lapple gray in colour. And it required no special knowledge 20 
tO see that he had a devil inside him. It gleamed wickedly 
out of his eye. 
| *?Od’s life, Richard!” cried Charles, “he has a Jew nose; 
by all the seven tribes I bid you ’ware of him.” 

“You have but to ride him with a gold bit, Richard,” said 25 
Comyn, “and he is a kitten, I’ll warrant.” 

y ? ) 
At that moment Pollux began to rear and kick, so that it 
took both the ’ostlers to hold him. 
“Show him a sovereign,” suggested Fox. “How do you 
feel, Richard ?”’ : 30 
~ “T never feared a horse yet,”’ I said with perfect truth, “nor 
do I fear this one, though I know he may kill me.” 
~ “T’ll lay you twenty pounds you have at least one bone 
roken, and ten that you are killed,” Baltimore puts in 
querulously, from the doorway. 3 
“T’ll do this, my Lord,” I answered. “If I ride him, he is 
mine. If he throws me, I give you twenty pounds for him.” 





















5 


344 RICHARD CARVEL 
The gentlemen laughed, and Baltimore vowed he could se] 
the horse to Astley for fifty; that Pollux was the son o 
Renown, of the Duke of Kingston’s stud,and muchmore. Bu 
Charles rallied him out by a reference to the debt at quinze 
sand an appeal to his honour as a sportsman. And swore h 
was discouraging one of the prettiest encounters that wouk 
take place in England for many a long day. And so the hors 
was sent to the stables of the White Horse Cellar, in Picea 
dilly, and left there at my order. 


: 


} 
| 
? 


i 
) 
| CHAPTER XXXVI 
| A GLIMPSE OF MR. GARRICK 

Day after day I went to Arlington Street, each time to be 
turned away with the same answer: that Miss Manners was 
‘a shade better, but still confined to her bed. You will scarce 
believe me, my dears, when I say that Mr. Marmaduke had 
gone at this crisis with his Grace to the York races. On the 5 
fourth morning, I think, I saw Mrs. Manners. She was much 
worn with the vigil she had kept, and received me with an 
apathy to frighten me. Her way with me had hitherto always 
been one of kindness and warmth. In answer to the dozen 
questions I showered upon her, she replied that Dorothy’s 10 
malady was in no wise dangerous, so Dr. James had said, and 
undoubtedly arose out of the excitement of a London season. 
As I knew, Dorothy was of the kind that must run and run 
until she dropped. She had no notion of the measure of her 
own strength. Mrs. Manners hoped that, in a fortnight, she rs 
would be recovered sufficiently to be removed to one of the 
baths. | 
| “She wishes me to thank you for the flowers, Richard. 
She has them constantly by her. And bids me tell you how 
sorry she is that she is compelled to miss so much of your 20 
visit to England. Are you enjoying London, Richard? I 
hear that you are well liked by the best of company.” 
I left, prodigiously cast down, and went directly to Mr. 
Wedgwood’s, to choose the prettiest set of teacups and dishes 
I could find there. I pitied Mrs. Manners from my heart, and 25 
made every allowance for her talk with me, knowing the sor- 
tow of her life. Here was yet another link in the chain of the 
Chartersea evidence. And I made no doubt that Mr. Manners’s 
brutal desertion at such a time must be hard to bear. [ con- 


{ 345 


i 
' 
' 
j 


346 RICHARD CARVEL | 
mi 


tinued my visits of inquiry, nearly always meeting some 

person of consequence, or the footman of such, come on the 

same errand as myself. And once I encountered the young 

man she had championed against his Grace at Lady Tanker- 
s ville’s. 

Rather than face the array of anxieties that beset me, I 
plunged recklessly into the gayeties—nay, the excesses—of 
Mr. Charles Fox and his associates. I paid, in truth, a ve 
high price for my friendship with Mr. Fox. But since it d id 

ro Not quite ruin me, I look back upon it as cheaply bought. To 
know the man well, to be the subject of his regard, was to feel 
an infatuation in common with the little band of worshippers 
which had come with him from Eton. They remained faithful 
to him all his days, nor adversity nor change of opinion could 

15 shake their attachment. They knew his faults, deplored them, 
and paid for them. And this was not beyond my compre 
hension, tho’ many have wondered at it. Did he ask me for 
five hundred pounds,—which he did,—I gave it freely, and 
would gladly have given more, tho’ I saw it all wasted in a 

20 night when the dice rolled against him. For those honoured 
few of whom [I speak likewise knew his virtues, which were 
quite as large as the faults, albeit so mingled with them that 
all might not distinguish. 

I attended some of the routs and parties, to all of which, alt 

25 a young colonial gentleman of wealth and family, I was made 
welcome. I went to a ball at Lord Stanley’s, a mixture of 
French horns and clarionets and coloured glass lanthorns and 
candles in gilt vases, and young ladies pouring tea in white, 
and musicians in red, and draperies and flowers ad libitum. 

30 There I met Mr. Walpole, looking on very critically. He wa 
the essence of friendliness, asked after my equerry, and said I 
had done well to ship him to America. At the opera, with 
Lord Ossory and Mr. Fitzpatrick, I talked through the round 
of the boxes, from Lady Pembroke’s on the right to Lady 

35 Hervey’ s on the left, where Dolly’s illness and Lady Harring= 
ton’s snuffing gabble were the topics rather than Giardini’s 


By 


fiddling. Mr. Storer took me to Foote’s dressing-room at the 








A GLIMPSE OF MR. GARRICK 347 


daymarket where we found the Duke of Cumberland loung- 
ng. I was presented, and thought his Royal Highness 
iad far less dignity than the monkey-comedian we had come 
see. 

I must not forget the visit | made to Drury Lane Playhouse s 
vith my Lords Carlisle and Grantham and Comyn. The great 
(ctor received me graciously in such a company, you may be 
ure. He appeared much smaller off the boards than on, and 
lis actions and speech were quick and nervous. Gast, his 
| eae was making him up for the character of Rich- 10 
wd IIT. 

*°Ods!” said Mr. Garrick, “your Lordships come five 
hinutes too late. Goldsmith is but just gone hence, fresh 
rom his tailor, Filby, of Water Lane. The most gorgeous 
reature in London, gentlemen, I'll be sworn. He is evenrs 
tow, so he would have me know, gone by invitation to my 
word Denbigh’s box, to ogle the ladies.” 

“And have you seen your latest lampoon, Mr. Garrick?” 
sks Comyn, winking at me. 

| Up leaps Mr. Garrick, so suddenly as to knock the paint-pot 20 
rom Gast’s hand. 

“Nay, your Lordship jests, surely!’’ he cried, his voice 
haking. 

|*Jests!”? says my Lord, very serious; “do I jest, Carlisle?” 
\nd turning to Mr. Cross, the prompter, who stood by, “ Fetch 25 
ne the Sz. “Sa s Evening Post,” says he. 

“°Ods my life!”’? continues poor Garrick, almost in tears; 
‘T have loaned Foote upwards of two thousand pounds. And 
ast year, as your Lordship remembers, took charge of his 
heatre when his leg was cut off. ’Pon my soul, T cannot 30 
count for his ingratitude.” 

__ lis not Foote,” says Carlisle, biting his lip; “I know 
oote’s mark.” 

“Then Johnson,” says the actor, “because I would not let 
um have my fine books in his dirty den to be kicked about 35 

floor, but put my library at his disposal—”’ 
“Nay, nor BODnRH h Nor yet Macklin nor Murphy.” 


348 RICHARD CARVEL 


“Surely not—”’cries Mr. Garrick, turning white under th 
rouge. Ihe name remained unpronounced. 

“Ay, ay, Junius, in the Evening Post. He has fastene 
upon you at last,’ answers Comyn, taking the paper. | 

“°Sdeath! Garrick,” Carlisle puts in, very solemn, “wha 
have you done to offend the Terrible Unknown? Talebearin 
to his Majesty, I'll warrant! I gave you credit for more dis 
cretion.” 

At these words Mr. Garrick seized the chair for support 

ro and swung heavily into it. Whereat the young lords burs 

into such a tempest of laughter that I could not refrain fror 
joining them. As for Mr. Garrick, he was so pleased to hay 
escaped that he laughed too, though with a palpable net 
vousness.* 

rs ‘By the bye, Garrick,’’ Carlisle remarked slyly, when h 
had recovered, “Mrs. Crewe was vastly taken with the las 
vers you left on her dressing table.” 

“Was she, now, my Lord?”’ said the great actor, deliohtal 
but scarce over his fright. “‘ You must know that I have wri 

20 one to my Lady Carlisle, on the occasion of her dropping he 
fan in Piccadilly.””. Whereupon he proceeded to recite it, an 
my Lord Carlisle, being something of a poet himself, pro 
nounced it excellent. 

Mr. Garrick asked me many questions concerning Americai 

25 life and manners, having:a play in his repertory the scene o 
which was laid in New York. In the midst of this, we wer 
interrupted by a dirty fellow who ran in, crying excitedly:— 
“Sir, the Archbishop of York is getting drunk at the Bea 
and swears he’ll be d—d if he’ll act to-night.” 

30 ‘The .archbishop may go to the devil!’ snapped Mi 
Garrick. “I do not know a greater rascal, except your 
self.” 

I was little short of thunderstruck. But presently Me 
Garrick added complainingly:— 
3s ‘I paid a guinea for the archbishop, but the fellow got m 
1Note by the editor. It was not long after this that Mr. es 
rick’s punishment came, and for the selfsame offence. 


A GLIMPSE OF MR. GARRICK 349 


yree murderers to-day and the best alderman I ever clapped 
yes upon. So we are square.” 

After the play we supped with him at his new house in 
delphi Terrace, next Topham Beauclerk’s. “Iwas hand- 
ymely built in the Italian style, and newly furnished through- 5 
ut, for Mr. Garrick travelled now with a coach and six and 
yur menservants, forsooth. And amongst other things he 
yok pride in showing us that night was a handsome snuff- 
ox which the King of Denmark had given him the year 
efore, his Majesty’s portrait set in jewels thereon. 10 
: Presently the news of the trial of Lord Baltimore’s horse 
egan to be noised about, and was followed by a deluge of 
agers at Brooks’s and White’s and elsewhere. Comyn and 
‘ox, my chief supporters, laid large sums upon me, despite 
ll my persuasion. But the most unpleasant part of thers 
ublicity was the rumour that the match was connected with 
ae struggle for Miss Manners’s hand. I was pressed with 
Ivitations to go into the country to ride this or that horse. 
lis Grace the Duke of Grafton had a mount he would have 
ye try at Wakefield -Lodge, and was far from pleasant over 20 
ay refusal of his invitation. I was besieged by young noble- 
en like Lord Derby and Lord Foley, until I was heartily 
ick of notoriety, and cursed the indiscretion of the person 
tho let out the news, and my own likewise. My Lord March, 
tho did me the honour to lay one hundred pounds upon my 25 
lall, insisted that I should make one of a party to the famous 
mphitheatre near Lambeth. Mr. Astley, the showman, being 
Rermed of his Lordship’s intention, met us on Westminster 
inidge dressed in his uniform as sergeant-major of the Royal 
ght Dragoons and mounted on a white charger. He 30 
scorted us to one of the large boxes under the pent-house 
ecved for the gentry. And when the show was over and the 
‘lace cleared, begged that I would ride his Indian Chief. I 
efused; but March pressed me, and Comyn declared he had 
taked his reputation upon my horsemanship. Astley was a 35 
arge man, about my build, and I donned a pair of his leather 
ieeches and boots, and put Indian Chief to his paces around 








J 
0 


350 RICHARD CARVEL 





a 


the ring. I found him no more restive, nor as much so, 
Firefly. The gentlemen were good enough to clap m 
roundly, and Astley vowed (no doubt because of the nob] 
patrons present) that he had never seen a better seat. 
s We all repaired afterwards for supper to Don Saltero’ 
Coffee House and Museum in Chelsea. And I remembere 
having heard my grandfather speak of the place, and tell h 
he had seen Sir Richard Steele there, listening to the Do 
scraping away at the “Merry Christ Church Bells” on hi 
ro fiddle. The Don was since dead, but King James’s coro 
tion sword and King Henry VIII's coat of mail still hie 
on the walls. 
The remembrance of that fortnight has ever been an appa 
ing one. Mr. Carvel had never attempted to teach me 
15 value of money. My grandfather, indeed, held but four thing 
essential to the conduct of life; namely, to fear God, lov 
the King, pay your debts, and pursue your enemies. Ther 
was no one in London to advise me, Comyn being but a wil 
lad like myself. But my Lord Carlisle gave me a frie 
20 warning: ea | 
“Have a care, Carvel,” said he, kindiy,) 7 or you will ru 
your grandfather through, and all your relations besides. _ 
little realized the danger of it when first came up.” (H 
was not above two and twenty then.) ‘And now I have. 
2s wife, am more crippled than I care to be, thanks to thi 
devilish high play. Will you dine with Lady Carlisle 1 in 
James’s Place next Friday?” 
My heart went out to this young nobleman. Handsome h 
was, as a picture. And he knew better than most of your fim 
30 gentlemen how to put a check on his inclinations. As a fri 
he had few equals, his purse being ever at the command € 
those he loved. And his privations on Fox’s account w 
already greater than many knew. 
I had a call, too, from Mr. Dix. I found him in my - 
3s OMe morning, cringing and smiling, and, as usual, half 
hour away from his point. ; 
“T warrant you, Mr. Carvel,” says he, “there are few you 








A GLIMPSE OF MR. GARRICK 351 


rentlemen not born among the elect that make the great 
pet you are blessed with.” 

_ “T have been fortunate, Mr. Dix,” I replied dryly. 
“Fortunate!” he cried; “good Lord sir! I hear of you 
everywhere with Mr. Fox, and you have been to Astley’s with 5 

my Lord March. And I have a draft from you at Ampthill.” 
“Vastly well manceuvred, Mr. Dix,” I said, laughing at the 
guilty change in his pink complexion. “And hence you are 
here.” 
He fidgeted, and seeing that I paid him no attention, but x0 
/went on with my chocolate, he drew a paper from his pocket 
‘and opened it. 
_ “You have spent a prodigious sum, sir, for so short a time, 
‘said he, unsteadily. ‘“’Tis very well for you, Mr. Carvel, but 
‘I have to remember that you are heir only. I am advancing 15 
you money without advices from his Worship, your grand- 
father. A most irregular proceeding, sir, and one likely to 
‘lead me to trouble. I know not what your allowance may be.” 
“Nor I, Mr. Dix,” I replied, unreasonably enough. “To 
speak truth, I have never had one. You have my Lord 20 
Comyn’s signature to protect you,’ ’ I went on ill-naturedly, 
for I had not had enough sleep. “And in case Mr. Carvel 
protests, which is unlikely and preposterous, you shall have 
ten per centum on your money until I can pay you. That 
should be no poor investment. 25 
He apologized. But he smoothed out the paper on his 
knee. 

_ “It is only right to tell you, Mr. Carvel, that you have 
spent one thousand eight hundred and thirty-seven odd 
pounds, i in home money, which is worth more than your colo- 30 
nial. Your grandfather’s balance with me was something 
less than one thousand five hundred, as I made him a remit- 

‘tance in December last. I have advanced the rest. And yes- 
‘Ferday,” he went on, resolutely for him, “yesterday J got an 
order for five hundred more.” | 35 
_ And he handed me the paper. I must own that the figures 
startled me. I laid it down with a fine show of indifference. 









a 
“‘And so you wish me to stop drawing? Very good, Mr, 
Dray 
He must have seen some threat implied, though I meant 
none. He was my very humble servant at once, and declared 
5 he had called only to let me know where I stood. Then he 
bowed himself out, wishing me luck with the horse he had 
heard of, and I lighted my pipe with his accompt. 


352 RICHARD CARVEL 


; CHAPTER XXXVII 


THE SERPENTINE 


WHETHER it was Mr. Dix that started me reflecting or my 
‘Lord Carlisle’s warning, or a few discreet words from young 
Lady Carlisle herself, I know not. At all events, I made a 
resolution to stop high play, and confine myself to whist and 
‘quinze and picquet. For I conceived a notion, enlarged by Mr. 5 
Fox, that I had more than once fallen into ere tender clutches 
‘of the hounds. I was so reflecting the morning following 
Lord Carlisle’s dinner, when Banks announced a footman. 

“Mr. Manners’s man, sir,” he added significantly, and 
handed mea little note. I seized it, and, to hide my emotion, ro 
told him to give the man his beer. 

_ The writing was Dorothy’s, and some time passed after I had 
torn off the wrapper before I could compose myself to read it. 

“So, Sir, the Moment I am too IIl to watch you you must 
needs lapse into Wilde & Flity Doings, for thus y’rs are 1s 
call’d even in London. Never Mind how yr Extravigancies 
are come to my Ears Sir. One Matter I have herd that I am 
Most Concerned about, & I pray you, my Dear Richard do not 
allow y’r Recklessness & Contemt for Danger to betray you 
into a Stil more Amazing Follie or I shall be very Miserable 20 
Indeed. I have Hopes that the Report is at Best a Rumour & 
you must sit down & write me that it is Sir that my Minde 
may be set at Rest. I fear for you Vastly & I beg you not 
Riske y’r Life Foolishly & this for the Sake of one who sub- 
scribs herself y’r Old Plamate & Well Wisher Dolly. 25 

“P.S. Ihave writ Sir Jon Fielding to put you in the Mar- 
shallsee or New Gate until Mr. Carvel can be tolde. I am 
Better & hope soon to see you agen & have been informed of 
y rt Dayly Visitts & y’r Flowers are beside me. D.M.” 


' 353 
i 
ri 





254 RICHARD CARVEL | \e 

In about an hour and a half, Mr. Marmaduke’s footman was 
on his way back to Arlington Street in a condition not to be 
lightly spoken of. During that period I had committed an 
hundred silly acts, and incidentally learned the letter by heart. 

s [was much distressed to think that she had heard of the affair 
of the horse, and more so to surmise that the gossip which 
clung to it must also have reached her. But I fear I thought 
most of her anxiety concerning me, which reflection caused m 
hand to shake from very happiness. ““Y’r Flowers are beside 

rome,” and “‘I beg you not Riske y’r Life Foolishly,” and * 
shall be very Miserable Indeed”! But then: “Y’r Old Pla- 
mate & Well Wisher’”’! Nay, she was inscrutable as ever. 

And my reply,—what was that to be? How I composed 
it in the state of mind I was in, I have no conception to this 

15 day. The chimney was clogged with papers ere (in a spelling 
to vie with Dolly’s) I had set down my devotion, my undying 
devotion, to her interests. I asked forgiveness for my cruelty 
on that memorable morning | had last seen her. But even to 
allude to the bet with Chartersea was beyond my powers; and 

20 as for renouncing it, though for her sake,—that was not to 
be thought of. The high play I readily promised to avoid in 
the future, and | sioned myself,—well, it matters not after 
seventy years. 

The same day, Tuesday, I received a letter from his Grade 

25 of Chartersea saying that he looked to reach London that 
night, but very late. He begged that Mr. Fox and Lord 
Comyn and I would sup with him at the Star and Garter at 
eleven, to fix matters for the trial on the morrow. Mr. Fox 
could not 20, but Comyn and I went to the inn, having first 

30 attended * The Tempést” at Drury Lane with Lady Di att 
Mr. Beauclerk. 

We found his Grace awaiting us in a private room, wil 
Captain Lewis, of the 60th Foot, who had figured as a second 
in the duel with young Atwater. The captain was a rake an 

33a bully and a toadeater, of course, with a loud and profar 
tongue, and he had had a bottle too many in the duke’s travele 
ling-coach. ‘There was likewise a Sir John Brooke, a a 


THE SERPENTINE — 355 


neighbour of his Grace in Nottinghamshire. Sir John ap- 

arently had no business in such company. He was a hearty 
Me niisting squire who had seen little of London; a three- 
bottle man who told a foul story and went asleep immediately 
afterwards. Much to my disappointment, Mr. Manners had 5 
gone to Arlington Street direct. I had longed for a chance 
to speak a little of my mind to him. 

This meeting, which I shall not take the time to recount, 
was near to ending in an open breach of negotiations. His 
Grace had lost money at York, and more to Lewis on the way 10 
to London. He was in one of his vicious humours. He in- 
sisted that Hyde Park should be the place of the contest. In 
‘vain did Comyn and I plead for some less public spot on 
‘account of the disagreeable advertisement the matter had 
received. His Grace would be damned before he would yield, 15 
and Lewis, adding a more forcible contingency, hinted that 
jour side feared a public trial. Comyn presently shut him up. 

“Do you ride the horse after his Grace is thrown,”’ says 
he, “‘and I agree to get on after and he does not kill you. 
*Sdeath! I am not of the army,” adds my Lord, cuttingly; 20 
(41 am a seaman, and not supposed to know a stirrup from a 
snaffle.” 

“°Od’s blood!”’ yelled the captain, “you question my horse- 
‘manship, my Lord? Do I understand your Lordship to ques- 
‘tion my courage?” 25 
“After lam thrown!”’ cries his Grace, very ugly, and finger- 
‘ing the jewels on his hilt. 

Sir John was awakened by the noise, and turning heavily 
spilled the whole of a pint of port on the duke’s satin waist- 
coat and breeches. Whereat Chartersea in a rage flung the 30 
‘bottle at his head with a curse, which it seems was a habit 
with his Grace. But the servants coming in, headed by my 
old friend the chamberlain, they quieted down. And it was 
King’s 0 agreed that the horse was to be at noon in the 

ing’s Old Road, or Rotten Row (as it was then beginning to 35 
be called), in Hyde Park. 

; I shall carry to the grave the memory of the next day. I 


2 





356 RICHARD CARVEL 3 i 


was up betimes, and over to the White Horse Cellar to see 
Pollux groomed, where I found a crowd about the opening 
into the stable court. “The young American!”’ called some 
one, and to my astonishment and no small annoyance I| was 

s greeted with a “Huzzay for you, sir!” ‘My groat’s on your 
honour!” This good will was owing wholly to the duke’s 
unpopularity with all classes. Inside, sporting gentlemen in 
hunting-frocks of red and green, and velvet visored caps, were 
shouldering favoured ’ostlers from the different noblemen’s 

zo Stables; and there was a liberal sprinkling of the characters 
who attended the cock mains in Drury Lane and at News 
market. At the moment of my arrival the head ’ostler was 
rubbing down the stallion’s flank. 

““Here’s ten pounds to ride him, Saunders!” called one of 

15 the hunting-frocks. 

“Umph!” sniffed the ’ostler; ‘‘ride ’m is it, yere honour? 
Two hunner beant eno’, an’ a Portugal crown 1’ th’ boot. 
Sooner take me chaunces o’ Tyburn on’ Ounslow ’Eath. An’ 
Miller waurna able to sit ’1m, ’tis no for th’ likes o’ me to try. 

20 Lh’ bloody devil took th’ shirt off Teddy’s back this morn. I 
adwises th’ young Buckskin t’ order ’s coffin.” Just then he 
perceived me, and touched his cap, something abashed. “With 
submission, ‘Sir; yr honour’ll take an old man’s adwise an’ not 
go near ’m. 

25  Pollux’s appearance, indeed, was not calculated to ee | 
me. He looked ugly to exaggeration, his ears laid back and 
his nostrils as big as crowns, and his teeth bared time and 
time. Now and anon an impatient fling of his hoof would 
make the grooms start away from him. Since coming to the 

30 inn he had been walked a couple of miles each day, with two 
men with loaded whips to control him. I was being offered a 
deal of counsel, when big Mr. Astley came in from Lambeth, 
And silenced them all. t 

“These grooms, Mr. Carvel,” he said to me, as we took 

35 bottle in private inside, ‘ ‘these grooms are the very devil for 
superstition. And once a horse gets a bad name with then 
good-by to him. Miller knew how to ride, of course, but He 


i 


THE SERPENTINE 357 


een another of them, was too damned overconfident. I 
ered him more than once for getting young horses into a 
fret, and I’m willing to lay a ten-pound note that he angered 
Pollux. ’Od’s life! He is a vicious beast. So was his father, 
‘Culloden, before him. But here’s luck to you, sir!” says 5 
Mr. Astley, tipping his glass; “‘having seen you ride, egad! I 
shave put all the money I can afford in your favour.” 

_ Before I left him he had given me several valuable hints as 
‘to the manner of managing that kind of horse: not to anger 
‘him with the spurs unless it became plain that he meant to to 
Kill me; to try persuasion first and force afterwards; and sec- 
ondly, he taught me a little trick of twisting the bit which I 
Ihave since found very useful. 

__ Leaving the White Horse, I was followed into Piccadilly by 
‘the crowd, until I was forced to take refuge in a hackney 1s 
Ihaise. The noise of the affair had got around town, and | 
was heartily sorry I had not taken the other and better 
‘method of trying conclusions with the duke, and slapped his 
face. I found Jack Comyn in Dover Street, and presently 
‘Mr. Fox came for us with his chestnuts in his chaise, 4 itz- 20 
patrick with him. At Hyde Park Corner there was quite a 
jam of coaches, chaises, and cabriolets and beribboned phae- 
tons, which made way for us, but kept us busy bowing as we 
passed among them. It seemed as if everybody of conse- 
quence that I had met in London was gathered there. One 25 
face I missed, and rejoiced that she was absent, for I had a 
degraded feeling like that of being the favourite in a cudgel- 
bout. And the thought that her name was connected with all 
this made my face twitch. I heard the people clapping and 
‘saw them waving in the carriages as we passed, and some jo 
‘stood forward before the rest in a haphazard way, without 
thyme or reason. Mr. Walpole with Lady Di Beauclerk, and 
Mr. Storer and Mr. Price and Colonel St. John, and Lord 
and Lady Carlisle and Lady Ossory. These I recognized. In- 
side, the railing along the Row was lined with people. And 35 
there stood Pollux, bridled, with a blanket thrown over his 
_ back and chest, surrounded still by the hunting-frocks, 


358 RICHARD CARVEL , 7 
who had followed him from the White Horse. Mixed in with 


these, swearing, conjecturing, and betting, were some to sur= 
- prise me, whose names were connected with every track im 
England: the Duke of Grafton and my Lords Sandwich and 
5 March and Bolingbroke, and Sir Charles Bunbury, and young 
Lords Derby avid Foley, who, after establishing separate 
names for folly on the tracks, went into partnership. My 
Lord Baltimore descended listlessly from his cabriolet to join 
the group. They all sang out when they caught sight of our 
ro party, and greeted me with a zeal to carry me off my feet. 
And my Lord Sandwicl 1, having done me the honour to lay 
something very handsome upon me, had his chief jockey on 
hand to give me some final advice. I believe I was the coolest 
of any of them. And at that time of all others the fact came 
sup to me with irresistible humour that I, a young colonial 
Whig, who had grown up to detest these people, should be 
rubbing noses with them. 
The duke put in an appearance five minutes before the hour 
upon a bay gelding, and attended by Lewis and Sir John 
20 Brooke, both mounted. As a most particular evidence of the 
detestation in which Chartersea was held, he could find noth- 
ing in common with such notorious rakes as March and Sand= 
wich. And it fell to me to champion these. After some diss 
cussion between Fox and Captain Lewis, March was chosen 
2s umpire. His Lordship took his post in the middle of the 
Row, drew forth an enamelled repeater from his waistcoat, 
and mouthed out the conditions of the match,—the terms, as 
he said, being private. ; 
“ Are you ready, Mr. Carvel!’ he asked. t 
30 “I am, my Lord, ' > T answered. The bells were pealing 
noon. 
“Then mount, sir,” said he. 
The voices of the people dropped to a hum that brought to 
mind the long-forgotten sound of the bees swarming in the 
3s garden by the Chesapeake. My breath began to come quickly 
_ Through the sunny haze I saw the cows and deer grazing 
the Serpentine, and out of the back of my eye handkerchiefs 


‘ 









THE SERPENTINE 359 


floated from the carriages banked at the gate. They took the 
blanket off the stallion. Stall-fed, and excited by the crowd, 
he looked brutal indeed. The faithful Banks, in a new suit 
of the Carvel livery, held the stirrup, and whispered a husky 
“God keep you, sir!”” Suddenly I was up. The murmur was 5 
hushed, and the park became still as a peaceful farm in Dev- 
onshire. The grooms let go of the stallion’s head. 

He stood trembling like the throes of death. I gripped my 
knees as Captain Daniel had taught me, years ago, when some 
invisible force impelled me to look aside. From between the 10 
broad and hunching shoulders of Chartersea I met such a 
venomous stare as a cuttle-hsh might use to freeze his prey. 
Cutile-fish! ‘Vhe word kept running over my tongue. I 
thought of the snaky arms that had already caught Mr. Mar- 
maduke, and were soon, perhaps, to entangle Dorothy. She rs 
had begged me not to ride, and I was risking a life which 
might save hers. 

The wind rushing in my ears and beating against my face 
awoke me all at once. The trees ran madly past, and the 
water at my right was a silver blur. The beast beneath me 20 
snorted as he rose and fell. Fainter and fainter dropped the 
clamour behind me, which had risen as I started, and the 
leaps grew longer and longer. Then my head was cleared 
like a steamed window-pane in a cold blast. I saw the road 
curve in front of me, I put all my strength into the curb, and 2; 
heeling at a fearful angle was swept into the busy Kensington 
Road. For the first time I knew what it was to fear a horse. 
The stallion’s neck was stretched, his shoes rang on the cob- 
bles, and my eyes were fixed on a narrow space between car- 
Mages coming together. In a flash I understood why the ze 
duke had insisted upon Hyde Park, and that nerved me some. 
I saw the frightened coachmen pulling their horses this way 
and that, I heard the cries of the foot-passengers, and then I 
was through, I know not how. Once more I summoned all my 
power, recalled the twist Astley had spoken of, and tried it. 35 
I bent his neck for an inch of rein. Next I got another inch, 


and then came a taste—the smallest taste—of mastery like 


Fd 


vt 


360 RICHARD CARVEL 


elixir. The motion changed with it, became rougher, and the 
hoof-beats a fraction less frequent. He steered like a ship 
with sail reduced. In and out we dodged among the wagons, 
and I was beginning to think I had him, when suddenly, with- 

5 out a move of warning, he came down rigid with his feet 
planted together, and only a miracle and my tight grip re- 
strained me from shooting over his head. There he stood 
shaking and snorting, nor any persuasion would move him. 
I resorted at last to the spurs. , 

1o He was up in the air in an instant, and came down across 
the road. Again I dug in to the rowels, and clung the tighter, 
and this time he landed with his head to London. A little 
knot of people had collected to watch me, and out stepped a 
strapping fellow in the King’s scarlet, from the Guard’s 
s House near by. 

“Hold him sir!” he said, tipping. “Better dismount, sir. 
He means murder, y’r honour.” . 

“Keep clear, curse you!” I cried, waving him off. “What 
time is 1t?”’ 

20 He stepped back, no dome thinking me mad. Some one 
spoke up and said it was five minutes past noon. | had the 
grace to thank him, I believe. To my astonishment I had 
been gone but four minutes; they had seemed twenty. Look- 
ing about me, I found I was in the open space before old” 

25 Kensington Church, over against the archway there. Once 
more I dug in the spurs, this time with success. Almost at a) 
jump the beast took me into the angle of posts to the east of 
the churchyard gate and tore up the footpath of Church Lane, 
terrified men and women ahead of me taking to the kennel. 

30 He ran irregularly, now on the side of the posts, now against 
the bricks, and then I gave myself up. 

Heaven put a last expedient i into my head, that I had once 
heard Mr. Dulany speak of. I braced myself for a pull that" 
should have broken the stallion’s jaw and released his mouth” 

35 altogether. Incredible as it may seem, he jarred into a trot, 
and presently came down to a walk, tossing his head like’ 
fury, and sweating at every pore. | leaned over and patted | 


= 


THE SERPENTINE 361 


aim, speaking him fair, and (marvel of marvels!) when we 
aad got to the dogs that guard the entrance of Camden House 

{ had coaxed him around and into the street, and cantered 
back at easy speed to the church. Without pausing to speak 
10 the bunch that stood at the throat of the lane, I started 5 
toward London, thankfulness and relief swelling within me. 

[ understood the beast, and spoke to him when he danced 
aside at a wagon with bells or a rattling load of coals, and 
thecked him with a word and a light hand. 

|. Before I gained the Life Guards House I met a dozen horse- 10 
men, amongst them Banks on a mount of Mr. Fox’s. They 
shouted when they saw me, Colonel St. John calling out that 
ne had won another hundred that I was not dead. Sir John 
Brooke puffed and swore he did not begrudge his losses to see 
me safe, despite Captain Lewis’s sourness. Storer vowed hers 
would give a dinner in my honour, and, riding up beside 
me, whispered that he was damned sorry the horse was now 
sroken, and his Grace’s chance of being killed taken away. 
And thus escorted, I came in by the King’s New Road to 
avoid the people running in the Row, and so down to Hyde 20 
Park Corner, and in among the chaises and the phaetons, 
lmpere there were enough cheering and waving of hats and 
nandkerchiefs to please the most exacting of successful gen- 
srals. I rode up to my Lord March, and finding there was a 
minute yet to run I went up the Row a distance and back zs 
igain amidst more huzzaing, Pollux prancing and quivering, 
and frothing his bit, but never once attempting to break. 
When I had got down, they pressed around me until I could 
searce breathe, crying congratulations, Comyn embracing me 
openly. Mr. Fox vowed he had never seen so fine a sight, and 30 
jaid many impolitic things which the duke must have over- 
neard. . . . Lady Carlisle sent me a red rose for my button- 
aole by his Lordship. Mr. Warner, the lively parson with 
ny Lord March, desired to press my hand, declaring that he 
aad won a dozen of port upon me, which he had set his best 35 
rassock against. My Lord Sandwich offered me snuff, and in- 
vited me to Hichinbroke. Indeed, I should never be through 


4 









362 ; RICHARD CARVEL q 


were I to continue. But I must not forget my old acquain- 

tance Mr. Walpole, who protested that he must get permission 

to present me to Princess Amelia: that her Royal Highness 

would not rest content now, until she had seen me. I did nee 
s then know her Highness’s sporting propensity. 

Then my Lord March called upon the duke, who stood in 
the midst of an army of his toadeaters. I almost pitied him 
then, tho’ I could not account for the feeling. I think it was 
because a nobleman with so great a title should be so cordially 

zo hated and despised. ‘There were high words along the railing 
among the duke’s supporters, Captain Lewis, in his anger, 
going above an inference that the stallion had been broken 
privately. Chartersea came forward with an indifferent swag: 
ger, as 1f to say as much and, in truth, no one looked for 

15 More sport, and some were even turning away. He had scarce! 
put foot to the stirrup, when the surprise came. ‘Two minutes) 
were up before he was got in the saddle, Pollux rearing and 
plunging and dancing in a circle, the grooms shouting and 
dodging, and his Giace cursing in a voice to wake the dead; 

»oand Mr. Fox laughing, and making small wagers that he 
would never be mounted. But at last the duke was up and 
gripped, his face bloody red, giving vent to his fury with the 
spurs. 

Then something happened, and so quickly that it cannot be 

25 writ fast enough. Pollux bolted like a shot out of a sling, 
vaulted the railing as easily as you or I would hop over a stick, 
and galloping across the lawn and down the embankment 
flung his Grace into the Serpentine. Precisely, as Mr. Fox) 
afterwards remarked, as the swine with the evil spirits ran 

30 down the slope into the sea. 

An indescribable bedlam of confusion followed, lords aril 
gentlemen, tradesmen and grooms, hostlers and apprentices, 
all tumbling after, many crying with laughter. My Lord 
Sandwich’s jockey pulled his Grace from the water in a most 

35 pitiable state of rage and humiliation. His side curls gone) 
the powder and pomatum washed from his hair, bedragglec 
and muddy and sputtering oaths, he made his way to Lore 












eae 


THE SERPENTINE 363 


March, swearing by all divine that a trick was put on him, 
that he would ride the stallion to Land’s End. His Lordship, 
pulling his face straight, gravely informed the duke that the 
match was over. With this his Grace fell flatly sullen, was 
pushed into a coach by Sir John and the captain, and drove s 
rapidly off Kensington way, to avoid the people at the corner. 





fede ett. 





“Sa 


CHAPTER XXXVIII 


IN WHICH I AM ROUNDLY BROUGHT TO TASK 


I wouLp have gone to Arlington Street direct, but my 
friends had no notion of letting me escape. They carried mil 
off to Brooks’s Club, where a bowl of punch was brewed di- 
rectly, and my health was drunk to three times three. Mr, 

5 Storer commanded a turtle dinner in my honour. We were 
not many, fortunately,—only Mr. Fox’s little coterie. And it 
was none other than Mr. Fox who made the speech of the 
evening. ‘May I be strung as high as Haman,”’ said he, amid 
a tempest of laughter, “if ever I saw half so edifying a sight 

ro as his Grace pitching into the Serpentine, unless it were his 
Grace dragged out again. Mr. Carvel’s advent has been a 
Godsend to us narrow ignoramuses of this island, gentlemen, 
To the Englishmen of our colonies, sirs, and that we may 
never underrate or misunderstand them more!” | 
15 ‘Nay, Charles,” cried my Lord Comyn. “Where is our 
gallantry? I give you first the Englishwomen of our colonies, 
and in particular the pride of Maryland, who has brought: 
back to the old country all the graces of the new,—Miss. 
Manners.” | 
20 His voice was drowned by a deafening shout, and we 
charged our glasses to drain them brimming. And then we 
all went to Drury Lane to see Mrs. Clive romp through “The. 
Wonder” in the spirit of the “immortal Peg.”’ She spoke an) 
epilogue that Mr. Walpole had writ especial for her, and 
2s made some witty and sarcastic remarks directed at the| 
gentlemen in our stage-box. We topped off a very full) 
day by a supper at the Bedford Arms, where I must draw the 
curtain. | 
The next morning I was abed at an hour which the sobriety | 


364 | 
4 


-I AM ROUNDLY BROUGHT TO TASK — 365 


of old age makes me blush to think of. Banks had just con- 
cluded a discreet discourse upon my accomplishment of the 
day before, and had left for my newspapers, when he came 
running back with the information that Miss Manners would 
see my honour that day. There was no note. Between us we 5 
made my toilet in a jiffy, and presently I was walking in at 
the Manners’s door in an amazing hurry, and scarcely waited 
for a direction. But as I ran up the stairs, I heard the tinkle 
of the spinet, and the notes of an old, familiar tune fell upon 
my ears. [The words rose in my head with the cadence. 10 


“Love me little, love me long, 
Is the burthen of my song, 
Love that is too hot and strong 
Runneth soon to waste.” 


That simple air, already mellowed by an hundred years, rs 
had always been her favourite. She used to sing it softly to 
herself as we roamed the woods and fields of the Eastern 
Shore. Instinctively I paused at the dressing-room door. 
Nay, my dears, you need not cry out, such was the custom of 
re times. A dainty bower it was, filled with the perfume of 20 
flowers, and rosy cupids disporting on the ceiling; and china 
and silver and gold filigree strewn about, with my teacups on 
‘the table. The sunlight fell like a halo round Dorothy’s head, 
her hands strayed over the keys, and her eyes were far away. 
She had not heard me. J remember her dress,—a silk with 25 
blue cornflowers on a light ground, and the flimsiest of lace 
‘caps resting on her hair. I thought her face paler; but be- 
yond that she did not show her illness. 

She looked up, and perceived me, I thought, with a start. 
“So it is you!”’ she said demurely enough; ‘‘you are come at 30 
last to give an account of yourself.” 

_. “Are you better, Dorothy?” I asked earnestly. 

__ “Why should you think that I have been ill?” she replied, 
her fingers going back to the spinet. ‘‘It is a mistake sir. 
Dr. James has given me near a gross of his infamous powders, 35 
and is now exploiting another cure. | have been resting from 
2 





366 RICHARD CARVEL 7 ¥ 
the fatigues of London, while you have been wearing yourself 
out. 
“Dr. James himself told me your condition was serious,’ 4 
said. , 
s “Of course,”’ said she; “the worse the disease, the more 
remarkable the cure, the more sought after the physician. 
When will you get over your provincial simplicity?” 
I saw there was nothing to be got out of her while in this 
baffling humour. I wondered what devil impelled a woman 
10 to write one way and talk another. In her note to me she 
had confessed her illness. The words I had formed to say to 
her were tied on my tongue. But on the whole I congratu= 
lated myself. She knew how to step better than I, and there 
were many awkward things between us of late best not spoken 
15 of. But she kept me standing an unconscionable time with- 
out a word, which on the whole was cruelty, while she played 
over some of Dibdin’s ballads. 
“Are you in a hurry, sir,”’ she asked at length, turning on 
me with a smile, “are you in a hurry to join my Lord March 
20 or his Grace of Grafton? And have you writ Captain Clap- 
saddle and your Whig friends at home of your new intimacies, 
of Mr. Fox and my Lord Sandwich?” 
I was dumb. é 
“Yes, you must be wishing to get away,” she continued 
25 cruelly, picking up the newspaper. “I had forgotten this 
notice. When I saw it this morning I thought of you, and 
despaired of a glimpse of you to-day.” (Reading.) “ ‘At the 
Three Hats, Islington, this day, the roth of May, will be 
played a grand match at that ancient and much renowned 
30 manly diversion called Double Stick by a sett of chosen young 
men at that exercise from different parts of the West Count 
for two guineas given free; those who break the most heal | 
to bear away the prize. Before the above-mentioned diversion | 
begins, Mr. Sampson and his young German will display | al- 
35 ternately on one, two, and three horses, various surprising 
and curious feats of famous horsemanship in like manner as 
at the Grand Jubilee at Stratford-upon-Avon. Admittance 


4 A 
| 


I AM ROUNDLY BROUGHT TO TASK 367 





one shilling each person.’ Before you leave, Mr. Richard,” 
‘she continued, with her eyes still on the sheet, “1 should like 
‘to talk over one or two little matters.” 

= Dolly—?!” 

) “Will you sit, sir?” 

| Isat down uneasily, expecting the worst. She disappointed 
‘me, as usual. 

| “What an unspeakable place must you keep in Dover 
Street! I cannot send even a footman there but what he 
‘comes back reeling.” ; 10 
| [had to laugh at this. But there was no smile out of my 
Tady. . 
| “It took me near an hour and a half to answer your note,’ 
‘T replied. 

| “And ’twas a masterpiece!” exclaimed Dolly, with wither- 15 
‘ing sarcasm; “‘oh, a most amazing masterpiece, I’ll be bound! 
His worship the French Ambassador is a kitten at diplomacy 
‘beside you, sir. An hour and a half, did you say, sir? 
‘Gemini, the Secretary of State and his whole corps could not 
‘have composed the like in a day.”’ taba 
| “Faith!”? I cried, with feeling enough; “and if that is 
‘diplomacy, [ would rather make leather breeches than be 
given an embassy.” 

|) She fixed her eyes upon me so disconcertingly that mine fell. 

'~ “There was a time,” she said, with a change of tone, “there 25 
“Was a time when a request of mine, and it were not granted 
‘outright, would have received some attention. This is my 
first experience at being ignored.” 

| “Thad made a wager,” said I, “and could not retract with 
honour.” 30 
| “So you had made a wager! Now we are to have some 
‘news at last. How stupid of you, Richard, not to tell 
‘me before. I confess I wonder what these wits find in your 
‘company. Here am I who have seen naught but dull 
Women for a fortnight, and you have failed to say any- 35 
} ing amusing in a quarter of an hour. Let us hear about 

| he wager.”’ 


| 


>’ 





368 RICHARD CARVEL 


“There is little to tell,’’ I answered shortly, considerably 
piqued. “I bet your friend, the Duke of Chartersea, some 
hundreds of pounds I could ride Lord Baltimore’s Pollux for 
twenty minutes, after which his Grace was to get on and ride 

5 twenty more.” 

“Where did you see the duke?”’ Dolly interrupted, without 
much show of interest. 

I explained how we had met him at Brooks’s, and had gone 
to his house. 

xo ‘‘You went to his house?” she repeated, raising her eye 
brows a trifle; ‘and Comyn and Mr. Fox? And pray, how 
did this pretty subject come up?”’ 

I related, very badly, I fear, Fox’s story of young Wrot- 

tlesey and the tea-merchant’s daughter. And what does my 

15 lady do but get up and turn her back, arranging some pinks 
in the window. I could have sworn she was laughing, had I 
not known better. 

“Well?” 

“Well, that was a reference to a little pleasantry Mr. Fox 

2ohad put up on him some time before. His grace flared, but 
tried not to show it. He said he had heard I could do some- 
thing with a horse (I believe he made it up), and Comyn gave 
oath that I could; and then he offered to bet Comyn that } 
could not ride this Pollux, who had killed his groom. That 
25 made me angry, and I told the duke I was no jockey to be put 
up to decide wagers, and that he must make his offers to me.” 

“La!” said Dolly, “you fell in head over heels.” 

“What do you mean by that?”’ I demanded. 

“Nothing,”’ said she, biting her lip. “Come, you are as 

3o ponderous as Dr. Johnson.” 

“Then Mr. Fox proposed that his Grace should nue after 

me. 
Here Dolly laughed in her handkerchief. ry 
“Pll be bound,”’ said she. 9 

3s ‘Then the duke went to York,” I continued hurriedly; 
“and when he came back we met him at the Star and Garter. 
He insisted that the match should come off in Hyde Park. I 


; 


in 
| It AM ROUNDLY BROUGHT TO TASK — 369 


should have preferred the open roads north of Bedford 
House. = 
| “Where there is no Serpentine,”’ she interrupted, with the 
Jaintest suspicion of a twinkle about her eyes. “On, sir, on! 
You are as reluctant as our pump at Wilmot House in the dry 5 
season. I see you were not killed, as you richly deserved. 
\Let us have the rest of your tale.” 
| “There is very little more to it, save that I contrived to 
master the beast, and his Grace—” 
| “Was disgraced. A vastly fine achievement, surely. But 10 
where are you to stop? You will be shaming the King next 
vy outwalking him. Pray, how did the duke appear as he was 
‘yoing into the Serpentine?” 
/- “You have heard?” I exclaimed, the trick she had played 
ne dawning upon me. 15 
“Upon my word, Richard, you are more of a simpleton than 
il thought you. Have you not seen your newspaper this 
morning?” 
| I explained how it was that I had not. She took up the 
Chronicle. 20 
| **“This Mr. Carvel has made no inconsiderable noise since 
is arrival in town, and yesterday crowned his performances 
yy defeating publicly a noble duke at a riding match in Hyde 
Park, before half the quality of the kingdom. His Lordship 
4f March and Ruglen acted as umpire.’ There, sir, was I not 25 
ight to beg Sir John Fielding to put you in safe keeping until 
ee grandfather can send for you?” 

‘I made to seize the paper, but she held it from me. 
| “ “Tf Mr. Carvel remains long enough in England, he bids 
‘air to share the talk of Mayfair with a certain honourable 30 
young gentleman of Brooks’s and the Admiralty, whose debts 
and doings now furnish most of the gossip for the clubs and 
the card tables. Their names are both connected with this 
sontest. *Tis whispered that the wager upon which the match 
was ridden arose— ”’ here Dolly stopped shortly, her colour 35 
ene, and cried out with a stamp of her foot. ‘You are 

9t content to bring publicity upon yourself, who de- 











370 RICHARD CARVEL t 


serve it, but must needs drag innocent names into the news- 
papers.” fe 
“What have they said?”’ I demanded, ready to roll every 
printer in London in the kennel. # 
s “Nay, you may read for yourself,” said she. And, flinging 
the paper in my lap, left the room. j 
They had not said much more, Heaven be praised. But I 
was angry and mortified as I had never been before, realizing 
for the first time what a botch I had made of my stay in Lon- 
zodon. In great dejection, I was picking up my hat to leave the 
house, when Mrs. Manners came in upon me, and insisted that 

I should stay for dinner. She was very white, and seemed 
troubled and preoccupied, and said that Mr. Manners had 
come back from York with a cold on his chest, but would 


rsinsist upon joining the party to Vauxhall on Monday. 1 
asked her when she was going to the baths, and suggested 
that the change would do her good. Indeed, she looked badly. 

“We are not going, Richard,”’ she replied; “Dorothy will 
not hear of it. In spite of the doctor she says she is not ill, 

20 and must attend at Vauxhall, too. You are asked?” : 
I said-that Mr. Storer had included me. I am sure, from 

the way she looked at me, that she did not heed my answer, 

She appeared to hesitate on the verge of a speech, and glanced 

once or twice at the doors. . 
‘Richard, I suppose you are old enough to take care of 

yourself, tho’ you seem still a child to me. I pray you will be 

careful, my boy,” she said, with something of the affection she 
had always borne me, “for your grandfather’s sake, | pray you 
will run into no more danger. I—we are your old friends, 

30 and the only ones here to advise you.” 

She stopped, seemingly, to weigh the wisdom of what was 
to come next, while I leaned forward with an eagerness | 
could not hide. Was she to speak of the Duke of Charter 
sea? Alas, I was not to know. For at that moment Dorothy 

35 came back to inquire why I was not gone to the cudgelling 
at the Three Hats. I said I had been invited to stay te 


dinner. ; 





25 


sees 


wets 


IT AM ROUNDLY BROUGHT TO TASK © 371 


_ “Why, [ have writ a note asking Comyn,” said she. ‘‘Do 
you think the house will hold you both?”’ 
His Lordship came in as we were sitting down, bursting ~ 
with some news, and he could hardly wait to congratulate 
‘Dolly on her recovery before he delivered it. 5 
| “Why, Richard,” says the dog, “what do you think some 
wae has done now? They believe at Brooks’s ‘twas that jack- 
‘anapes of a parson, Dr. Warner, who was there yesterday with 
March.” He drew a clipping from his pocket. ‘Listen, Miss 


| 
| “ “On Wednesday did a carter see 
His Grace, the Duke of Ch-rt-s-a, 
As plump and helpless as a bag, 
| A-straddle of a big-boned nag. 
| “Lord, Sam!” the carter loudly yelled, 15 
: On by this wondrous sight impelled, 

“We'll run and watch this noble gander 

Master a steed, like Alexander.” 

But, when the carter reached the Row, 

His Grace had left it, long ago. 20 
Bucephalus had leaped the green, 

The duke was in the Serpentine. 
The fervent wish of all good men 
That he may ne’er come out again!’ ” 

Comyn’s impudence took my breath, tho’ the experiment 25 

interested me not a little. My lady was pleased to laugh at 
the doggerel, and even Mrs. Manners. Its effect upon Mr. 
Marmaduke was not so spontaneous. His smile was half- 
hearted. Indeed, the little gentleman seemed to have lost his 
‘spirits, and said so little (for him), that I was encouraged to 30 
‘corner him that very evening and force him to a confession. 
But I might have known he was not to be caught. It ap- 
peared almost as if he guessed my purpose, for as soon as ever 
‘the claret was come on, he excused himself, saying he was 
‘promised to Lady Harrington, who wanted one. 3 
_ Comyn and I departed early on account of Dorothy. She 
had denied a dozen who had left cards upon her. 





Io 


372 RICHARD CARVEL i 


“FEead, Richard, ” said my Lord, when we had got to my 
lodgings, “I made him change colour, did I not? Do you 
know how the little fool looks to me? ’Od’s life, he looks 
hunted, and cursed near brought to earth. We must fetch 

5 this thing to a point, Richard. And I am wondering what 
Chartersea’s next move will be,” he added thoughtfully. 


CHAPTER XXXIX 


HOLLAND HOUSE 


On the morrow, as I was setting out to dine at Brooks’s, I 
‘received the following on a torn slip of paper: ‘‘Dear Rich- 
ard, we shall have a good show to-day you may care to see.”’ 
It was signed “Fox,” and dated at St. Stephen’s. I lost no 
time in riding to Westminster, where I found a flock of ex- 5 
cited people in Parliament Street and in the Palace Yard. 
And on climbing the wide stone steps outside and a narrower 
flight within I was admitted directly into the august presence 
of the representatives of the English people. They were in a 
most prodigious and unseemly state of uproar. 10 

What a place is old St. Stephen’s Chapel, over St. Mary’s 
in the Vaults, for the great Commons of England to gather! 
It is scarce larger or more imposing than our own assembly 
room in the Stadt House in Annapolis. St. Stephen’s meas- 
ures but ten yards by thirty, with a narrow gallery running 15 
along each side for visitors. In one of these, by the rail, I sat 
down suffocated, bewildered, and deafened. And my first 
impression out of the confusion was of the bewigged speaker 
enthroned under the royal arms, sore put to restore order. 
On the table in front of him lay the great mace of the Resto- 20 
ration. Three chandeliers threw down their light upon the 
mob of honourable members, and I wondered what had put 
them into this state of uproar. 

Presently, with the help of a kind stranger on my right, 
who was occasionally making shorthand notes, I got a few 2s 
bearings. That was the Treasury Bench, where Lord North 
sat (he was wide awake, now). And ehepe was the Govern- 
ment side. He pointed out Barrington and Weymouth and 
Jerry Dyson and Sandwich, and Rigby in the court suit of 
purple velvet with the sword thrust through the pocket. I 30 


373 


aX *™ 


374 RICHARD CARVEL J 


took them all in, as some of the worst enemies my country had 
in Britain. Then my informant seemed to hesitate, and made 
bold to ask my persuasion. When I told him I was a Whig, 
and an American, he begged the favour of my hand. 
5 “There, sir,” he cried excitedly, “‘ that stout young gentle= 
man with the black face and eyebrows, and the blacker heart, 
I may say,—the one dressed in the fantastical costume called 
by a French name,—is Mr. Charles Fox. He has been sent 
by the devil himself, I believe, to ruin this country. *Ods, 
ro sir, that devil Lord Holland begot him. He is but one and 
twenty, but his detestable arts have saved North’s neck from 
Burke and Wedderburn on two occasions this year.” 
“And what has happened to-day?” I asked, smiling. 
‘Che stranger smiled, too. 
1s “Why, sir,” he answered, raising his voice above the noise; 
“if you have been in London any length of time, you will have 
read the account, with comment, of the Duke of Grafton’s 
speech in the Lords, signed Domitian. Their Lordships well 
know it should have been over a greater signature. This after- 
20 noon his Grace of Manchester was talking in the Upper House 
about the Spanish troubles, when Lord Gower arose and de= 
sired that the place might be cleared of strangers, lest some. 
Castilian spy might lurk under the gallery. That was die 
rected against us of the press, sir, and their Lordships knew 
25it. ’Ad’s heart, sir, there was a riot, the house servants 
tumbling everybody out, and Mr. Burke and Mr. Dunning in 
the boot, who were gone there on the business of this house 
to present a bill. Those gentlemen are but just back, calling 
upon the commons to revenge them and vindicate their 
30 honour. And my Lord North looks troubled, as you will 
mark, for the matter is like to go hard against his Majesty’s 
friends. But hush, Mr. Burke is to speak.” 
The house fell quiet to listen, and my friend began to ply 
his shorthand industriously. I leaned forward with a sharp 
35 Curiosity to see this great friend of America. He was dressed 
in a well-worn suit of brown, and I recall a decided Irish face, 
and a more decided Irish accent, which presently I forgot 


HOLLAND HOUSE 375 


under the spell of his eloquence. I heard it said he had 
many defects of delivery. He had none that day, or else | 
was too little experienced to note them. Afire with indigna- 
tion, he told how the deputy black rod had hustled him like a 
vagabond or a thief, and he called the House of Lords a bear 5 
garden. He was followed by Dunning, in a still more inflam- 
matory mood, until it seemed as if all the King’s friends in 
the Lower House must desert their confederates in the Upper. 
No less important a retainer than Mr. Onslow moved a policy 
of retaliation, and those that were left began to act like the 10 
Egyptians when they felt the Red Sea under them. They 
nodded and whispered in their consternation. 

It was then that Mr. Fox got calmly up before the pack of 
frightened mercenaries and argued (God save the mark!) for 
moderation. He had the ear of the house in a second, and he 15 
spoke with all the confidence—this youngster who had just 
reached his majority—he had used with me before his inti- 
mates. I gaped with astonishment and admiration. The 
Lords, said he, had plainly meant no insult to this honourable 
house, nor yet to the honourable members. They had aimed 20 
at the common enemies of man, the printers. And for this 
their heat was more than pardonable. My friend at my side 
stopped his writing to swear under his breath. “Look at 
em!” he cried; “they are turning already. He could argue 
Swedenborg into popery!” 25 
_ The deserters were coming back to the ranks, indeed, and 
North and Dyson and Weymouth had ceased to look haggard, 
and were wreathed in smiles. In vain did Mr. Burke harangue 
them in polished phrase. It was a language North and Com- 
pany did not understand, and cared not to learn. Their 30 
young champion spoke the more worldly and cynical tongue 
of White’s and Brooks’s, with its shorter sentences and ab- 
sence of formality. And even as the devil can quote Scrip- 
ture to his purpose, Mr. Fox quoted history and the classics, 
with plenty more that was not above the heads of the booted 35 
and spurred country squires. And thus, for the third time, 
he earned the gratitude of his gracious Majesty. 


il 


376 RICHARD CARVEL . 


“Well, Richard,” said he, slipping his arm through mine as 
we came out into Parliament Street, “I promised you some 
sport. Have you enjoyed it?” 

I was forced to admit that I had. 

5s ‘Let us to the ‘Thatched House,’ and have supper pri- 
vately,” he cllgevateds “T do not feel like a company to- 
night.” We walked on for some time in silence. Presently he 
said: ‘You must not leave us, Richard. You may go home to 
see your grandfather die, and when you come back I will see 

ro about getting you a little borough for what my father paid for 
mine. And you shall marry Dorothy, and perchance return in 
ten years as governor of a principality. ‘That is, after we’ve 
ruined you at the club. How does that prospect sit?” 

I wondered at the mood he was in, that made him choose 

13me rather than the adulation and applause he was sure to 
receive at Brooks’s for the part he had played that night. 
After we had satisfied our hunger,—for neither of us had 
dined,—and poured out a bottle of claret, he looked up at me 
quizzically. 

20 “I have not heard you congratulate me,” he said. 

“Nor will you,”’ I replied, laughing. 

“T like you the better for it, Richard. *ITwas a damned 
poor performance, and that’s truth.”’ 

“YT thought the performance remarkable,” I said hon- 

25 estly. 

“Oh, but it was not,” he answered scornfully. ‘The 
moment that dun-coloured: Irishman gets up, the whole gov- 
ernment pack begins to whine and shiver. There are men 1 
went to school with I fear more than Burke. But you don’t 

30 like to see the champion of America come off second best. 
Is that what you’re thinking?” 

“No. But I was wondering why you have devoted your 
talents to the devil,” I said, amazed at my boldness. : 

He glanced at me, and half laughed again. : 

3s ‘You are cursed frank,”’ said he; ““damned frank.”’ 4 

“But you invited it.” 

“Yes,” he replied, “so I did. Give me a man who is hon= 


HOLLAND HOUSE 377 


est. Fill up again,” said he; “‘and spit out all you would 
like to say, Richard.” 

“Then,” said I, “why do you waste your time and your 
breath in defending a crew of political brigands and placemen, 
and a king who knows not the meaning of the word gratitude, 5 
and who has no use for a man of ability? You have honoured 
me with your friendship, Charles Fox, and I may take the lib- 
erty to add that you seem to love power more than spoils. 
You have originality. You are honest enough to think and 
act upon your own impulses. And pardon me if I say you 10 
have very little chance on that side of the house where you 
have put yourself.” 

“You seem to have picked up a trifle since you came into 
England,” he said. “A damned shrewd estimate, I’1l be sworn. 
And for a colonial! But, as for power,” he added a little dog- rs 
gedly, ‘I have it in plenty, and the kind I like. The King 
and North hate and fear me already more than Wilkes.”’ 

“And with more cause,”’ I replied warmly. ‘‘His Majesty 
perhaps knows that you understand him better, and foresees 
the time when a man of your character will give him cause to 20. 
fear indeed.” 

He did not answer that, but called for a reckoning; 
and taking my arm again, we walked out past the sleeping 
houses. 

“Have you ever thought much of the men we have in the 25 
colonies?”’ I asked. 

“No,” he replied; “Chatham stands for ’em, and [| hate 
Chatham on my father’s account. That is reason enough for 
me. 9? 

“You should come back to America with me,”’ I said. “And 3o 
when you had rested awhile at Carvel Hall, I would ride with 
you through the length of the provinces from Massachusetts 
to North Carolina. You will see little besides hard-working, 
self-respecting Englishmen, loyal to a king who deserves loy- 
alty as little as Louis of France. But with their eyes open, 35 
and despite the course he has taken. They are men whose 
measure of resolution is not guessed at.” 


| 


y 
378 RICHARD CARVEL : 


He was silent again until we had got into Piceadilly ang 
opposite his lodgings. ; 
‘Are they all like you?”’ he demanded. . 

“Who?” said I. For I had forgotten my words. 

5 “The Americans.” 

“The greater part feel as I do.” 

“I suppose you are for bed,’’ he remarked abruptly. 

“The night is not yet begun,” I answered, repeating his 
favourite words, and pointing at the glint of tieyannean the 

ro windows. 

“What do you say to a drive behind those chestnuts of mine 
for a breath of air? I have j just got my new cabriolet Selwyn 
ordered in Paris.”’ 

Soon we were rattling over the stones in Piccadilly, wrapped 

15in greatcoats, for the morning wind was cold. We saw the 
Earl of March and Ruglen getting our of a chair before his 
house, opposite the Green Park, and he stopped swearing at 
the chairmen to wave at us. 

“Hello, March!”? Mr. Fox said affably, “you’re drunk.” 

20 His Lordship smiled, bowed graciously if unsteadily to me, 
and did not appear to resent the pleasantry. Then he sighed. 

“What a pair of cubs it is,” said he; “I wish to God I was 
young again. I hear you astonished the world again last 
night, Charles.” A 

25 We left him being assisted into his residence by a sleepy 
footman, paid our toll at Hyde Park Corner, and rolled on- 
ward toward Kensington, Fox laughing as we passed the 
empty park at the thought of what had so lately occurred 
there. After the close night of St. Stephen’s, nature seemed 

vo doubly beautiful. The sun slanted over the water in the gar- 
dens in bars of green and gold. The bright new leaves were 
on the trees, and the morning dew had ‘brought with it the 
smell of the living earth. We passed the stream of market 
wagons lumbering along, pulled by sturdy, patient farm- 
3s horses, driven by smocked countrymen, who touched their cap 
to the fine gentlemen of the court end of town; who shook 
their heads and exchanged deep tones over the whims of qual- 


~ 


| 


HOLLAND HOUSE 379 


ity, unaccountable as the weather. But one big-chested fellow 
arrested his salute, a scowl came over his face, and he shouted 
back to the wagoner whose horses were munching his hay:— 
_ “Hi, James, keep down yere hands. Mr. Fox is noo friend 
of we.” 5 

This brought a hard smile on Mr. Fox’s face. 

“T believe, Richard,” he said, * “[Lhave become more detested _ 
than any man in Parliament.” 

“And justly,” I replied; “for you have fought all that is 
peed in you.”’ ro 
“T was mobbed once, in Parliament Street. I thought they 

Frould kill me. Have you ever been mobbed, Richard?” he 
asked indifferently. 

| “Never, I thank Heaven,”’ I answered fervently. 

_ “T think I would rather be mobbed than indulge in any 15 
amusement I know of,”’ he continued. ‘Than confound Wed- 
derburn, or drive a measure against Burke,—which 1s no bad 
sport, my word on’t. I would rather be mobbed than have my 
horse win at Newmarket. There is a keen pleasure you wot 
not of, my lad, in listening to Billingsgate and Spitalfields 20 
howl maledictions upon you. And no sensation I know of is 
equal to that of the moment when the mud and sticks and 
oranges are coming through the windows of your coach, when 
‘tthe dirty weavers are clutching at FOUL ruffles and shaking 
their filthy fists under your nose.” a6 
| “Tt is, at any rate, strictly an aristocratic pleasure,”’ I as- 
sented, laughing. 

So we came to Holland House. Its wide fields of sprouting 
‘corn, its woods and pastures.and orchards in blossom, were 
smiling that morning, as though Leviathan, the town, were 30 
not rolling onward to swallow them. Lord Holland had 
bought the place from the Warwicks, with all its associations 
land memories. The capped towers and quaint facades and 
posure windows were plain to be seen from where we 

alted in the shaded park, and to the south was that Kensing- 35 
ton Road we had left, over which all the glory and royalty of 
. at one time or another had rolled. Under these 





cf 
380 RICHARD CARVEL 


majestic oaks and cedars Cromwell and Ireton had stood while 
the beaten Royalists lashed their horses on to Brentford. Nor 
did I forget that the renowned Addison had lived here after 
his unhappy marriage with Lady Warwick, and had often 
sridden hence to Button’s Coffee House in town, where my 
grandfather had had his dinner with Dean Swift. 

We sat gazing at the building, which was bathed in the 
early sun, at the deer and sheep grazing in the park, at the 
changing colours of the young leaves as the breeze swayed 

10 them. The market wagons had almost ceased now, and there 
was little to break the stillness. . 

“You love the place?” I said. 

He started, as though I had awakened him out of a sleep. 
And he was no longer the Fox of the clubs, the cynical, the 

rs reckless. He was no longer the best-dressed man in St. 
James’s Street, or the aggressive youngster of St. Stephen’s. 

“Love it!” he cried. “Ay, Richard, and few guess how 
well. You will not laugh when I tell you that my happiest 
days have been passed here, when I was but a chit, in the 

20 long room where Addison used to walk up and.down compos- 
ing his Spectators: or trotting after my father through these 
woods and gardens. A kinder parent does not breathe than 
he. Well I remember how he tossed me in his arms under 
that tree when I had thrashed another lad for speaking ill of 

2shim. He called me his knight. In all my life he has never 
broken faith with me. When they were blasting down a wall 
where those palings now stand, he promised me I should see it 
done, and had it rebuilt and blown down again because I had 
missed the sight. All he ever exacted of me was that I should 

30 treat him as an elder brother. He had his own notion of the 
world I was going into, and prepared me accordingly. He 
took me from Eton to Spa, where I learned gaming instead 
of Greek, and gave me so much a night to risk at play.” | 

I looked at him in astonishment. To say that I thought 

35 these relations strange would have been a waste of words. 

“To be sure,’ Charles continued,“ I was bound to learn, and 

could acquire no younger.”’ He flicked the glossy red backs of 


HOLLAND HOUSE 381 


his horses with his whip. “You are thinking it an extraordi- 
nary education, I know,”’ he added rather sadly. ‘‘I have told 
you this—God knows why! Yes, because I like you damn- 
ably, and you would have heard worse elsewhere, both of him 
and of me. I fear you have listened to the world’s opinion 5 
of Lord Holland.”’ 

Indeed, I had heard a deal of that nobleman’s peculations of 
the public funds. But in this he was no worse than the bulk 
of his colleagues. His desertion of William Pitt I found hard 
to forgive. 10 

“The best father in the world, Richard!”’ cried Charles. 
“If his former friends could but look into his kind heart, and 
see him in his home, they would not have turned their backs 
upon him. [ do not mean such scoundrels as Rigby. And now 
my father is in exile half the year in Nice, and the other half rs 
at King’s Gate. The King and Jack Bute used him for a tool, 
and then cast him out. You wonder why I am of the King’s 
party?’ said he, with something sinister in his smile; “I 
will tell you. When I got my borough I cared not a fie for 
parties or principles. I had only the one definite ambition, tO 20 
fevenge Lord Holland. Nay,” he exclaimed, stopping my 
ets, “TI was not too young to know rottenness as well as 
another. The times are rotten in England. You may have 
virtue in America, amongst a people which is fresh from a 
struggle with the earth and its sav ages. We have cursed little 25 
at home, in faith. The King, with fis barley water and rising 
at six, and shivering in chapel, and his middle-class table, is 
fottener than the rest. The money he saves in his damned 
beggarly court goes to buy men’s souls. His word is good with 
fone. For my part I prefer a man who is drunk six “days out 30 
of the seven to one who takes his pleasure so. And [ am not 
30 great a fool that I cannot distinguish justice from injustice. 

[ know the wrongs of the colonies, which you yourself have 
put as clear as I wish to hear, despite Mr. Burke and his elo- 
| ana And perhaps, Richard,” he concluded, with a last 35 
| 1My grandfather has made a note here, which in justice should 
De added, that he was not deceived by Mr. Fox’s partiality.—D. C. C. 


N 





£ 
382 .*- RICHARD CARVEL \= 


lingering look at the old pile as he turned his horses, “ perhap 
some day, I shall remember what you told us at Brooks’s.’ 
It was thus, boyishly, that Mr. Fox chose to take me into hi 
confidence, an honour which I shall remember with a thrill & 
smy dying day. So did he reveal to me the impulses of hi 
early life, hidden forever from his detractors. How little doe 
the censure of.this world count, which cannot see the hear 
behind the embroidered waistcoat! When Charles Fox begai 
his career he was a thoughtless lad, but steadfast to such prin 
10 ciples as he had formed for himself. They were not many, bu 
compared to those of the arena which he entered, they wer 
noble. He strove to serve his friends, to lift the name of ; 
father from whom he had received nothing but kindness, how 
ever misguided. And when he saw at length the error of hi 
1s Ways, what a mighty blow did he strike for the right! 
“Here is a man,” said Dr. Johnson, many years afterwards 
‘who has divided his kingdom with Czsar; so that it was; 
doubt whether the nation should be ruled by the sceptre o 
George the Third or the tongue of Fox.” 


‘ 


a 


~e- 


a 


5 4? 
e 


CHAPTER XL 


VAUXHALL 


Matters had come to a pretty pickle indeed. I was openly 
varned at Brooks’s and elsewhere to beware of the duke, who 
was said upon various authority to be sulking in Hanover 
Square, his rage all the more dangerous because it was smoul- 
lering. I saw Dolly only casually before the party to Vaux-5 
wall. Needless to say, she flew in the face of Dr. James’s 
iuthority, and went everywhere. She was at Lady Bunbury’s 
rum, whither I had gone in another fruitless chase after Mr. 
Marmaduke. Dr. Warner’s verse was the laughter of the com- 
yany. And, greatly to my annoyance,—in the circumstances, 1 
=I was made a hero of, and showered with three times as 
Many invitations as I could accept. 
“The whole story got abroad, even to the awakening of the 
luke in Covent Garden. And that clownish Mr. Foote, of the 
daymarket, had added some lines to a silly popular song en- 15 
atled The Sights o’ Lunnun, with which I was hailed at Mrs. 
Betty's fruit-stall in St. James’s Street. Here is one of the 
ferses :— 
+ “Tn Maryland, he hunts the Fox 

From dewy Morn till Day grows dim; 20 

At Home he finds a Paradox,— 


x From Noon till Dawn the Fox hunts him.”’ 


| Charles Fox laughed when he heard it. But he was serious 
vhen he came to speak of Chartersea, and bade me look out 
or assassination. I had Banks follow me abroad at night, 25 
with a brace of pistols under his coat, albeit I feared nothing 
lave that I should not have an opportunity to meet the duke in 
fi: fight. And I resolved at all hazards to run Mr. Mar- 


maduke down with despatch, if I had to waylay him. 
& 383 








384 RICHARD CARVEL 


Mr. Storer, who was forever giving parties, was responsib| 
for this one at Vauxhall. We went in three coaches, and bi 
sides Dorothy and Mr. Marmaduke, the company include 
Lord and Lady Carlisle, Sir Charles and Lady Sarah Bur 

s bury, Lady Ossory and Lady Julia Howard, two Miss Star 
leys and Miss Poole, and Comyn, and Hare, and Price, an 
Fitzpatrick, the latter feeling very glum over a sum he ha 
dropped that afternoon to Lord Harrington. Fox had bee 
called to St. Stephen’s on more printer’s business. 

ro Dolly was in glowing pink, as I loved best to see her, an 
looked divine. Comyn and I were in Mr. Manners’s coael 
The evening was fine and warm, and my lady in very livel 
spirits. As we rattled over Westminister Bridge, the music‘ 
the Vauxhall band came “throbbing through the still night, 

rs and the sky was bright with the reflection of the lights. | 
was the fashion with the quality to go late; and so elevé 
o’clock had struck before we had pulled up between Vauw 
hall stairs, crowded with watermen and rough mudlarks, ar 
the very ordinary-looking house which forms the entram 

20 of the great garden. Leaving the servants outside, single-f 
we trailed through the dark passage guarded by the wicke 
gate. 

“Prepare to be ravished, Richard,” said my lady, with fi 
sarcasm. | 

2s ‘You were yourself born in the colonies, miss,” I retorte 
“T confess to a thrill, and will not pretend that I have se 
such sights often enough to be sated.”’ 

“Lal” exclaimed Lady Sarah, who had overheard; “I ve 
this is refreshing. Behold a new heaven and a new eart 

30 Mr. Carvel!” | 

Indeed, much to the amusement of the company, I took} 
pains to hide my enthusiasm at the brilliancy of the sce 
which burst upon me. A great orchestra rose in the midst 
a stately grove lined on all four sides with supper-boxes 

35 brave colours, which ran in straight tiers or swept around 
circles. These were filled with people of all sorts and com 
tions, supping and making merry. Other people were saunti 





VAUXHALL 385 


ing under the trees, keeping step with the music. Lamps of 
white and blue and red and green hung like luminous fruit 
from the branches, or clustered in stars and crescents upon 
the buildings. 

“Why, Richard, you are as bad as Farmer Colin. 5 


* “O Patty! Soft in feature, 
TP’ve been at dear Vauxhall; 
No paradise is sweeter, 

Not that they Eden call.’ ” 


whispered Dolly, paraphrasing. 10 

At that instant came hurrying Mr. Tom Tyers, who was one 
of the brothers, proprietors of the gardens. He was a very 
ively young fellow who seemed to know everybody, and he 
lesired to know if we would walk about a little before being 
shown to the boxes reserved for us. 5 

“They are on the right side, Mr. Tyers?”’ demanded Mr. 
Storer. 

“Oh, to be sure, sir. Your man was most particular to 
stipulate the pink and blue flowered brocades, next the Prince 
of Wales’ gfe 20 

“But you must have the band stop that piece, Mr. Tyers,” 
tried Lady Sarah. ‘‘I declare, it is too much for my nerves. 
Let them play Dibbin’s Ephestan Matron.’ 

“As your Ladyship wishes,” responded we obliging Mr. 
lyers, and sent off an uniformed warder to the band-master. 25 
‘As he led us into the Rotunda, my Lady Dolly, being in one 

of her whimsical humours, began to recite in the manner of 
the guide-book, to the vast diversion of our party and the 
lonest citizens gaping at us. 

“This, my lord, ladies, and gentlemen,” says the minx, “‘is 30 
that marvellous Rotunda commonly known as the ‘umbrella,’ 
where the music plays on wet nights, and where we have our 
Masquerades and ridottos. Their Royal Highnesses are very 
sommonily seen here on such occasions. As you see, it is deco- 
ted with mirrors and scenes and busts, and with gilded fes- 35 
ons. That picture was painted by the famous Hogarth. 








386 RICHARD CARVEL ‘4 


The organ in the orchestra cost—you must supply the figure, 
Mr. Tyers,—and the ceiling is at least two hundred feet 
high. Gentlemen from the colonies and the country take 
notice.” if 
By this time we were surrounded. Mr. Marmaduke was 
scandalized and crushed, but Mr. Tyers, used to the vagaries 
of his fashionable patrons, was wholly convulsed. 
- “Faith, Miss Manners, and you would consent to do this 
two nights more, we should have to open another gate,” he 
ro declared. Followed by the mob, which it seems was part 0) 
the excitement, he led us out of the building into the Grand 
Walk; and offered to turn on the waterfall and mill, whict 
(so Lady Sarah explained to me) the farmers and merchant: 
fell down and worshipped every night at nine, to the tinkling 
1s of bells. She told Mr. T'yers there was diversion enough with 
out “tin cascades.” When we got to the Grand Cross Wall 
he pointed out the black “ Wilderness” of tall elms and cedar 
looming ahead of us. And so we came to the South Walk 
with its three triumphal arches framing a noble view of ar 
,ochitecture at the far end. Our gentlemen sauntered ahead 
with their spy-glasses, staring the citizens’ pretty daughter 
out of countenance, and making cynical remarks. os 
“Why, egad!” I heard Sir Charles say, “the wig-maker 
have no cause to petition his Majesty for work. Pll be swon 
25 the false hair this good staymaker has on cost a guinea.” — 
A remark which caused the staymaker (if such he was 
such huge discomfort that he made off with his, wife in th 
opposite direction, to the time of jeers and cock-crows fror 
the bevy of Vauxhall bucks walking abreast. i 
“Vou must show us the famous ‘dark walks,’ Mr. Tyers, | 
says Dorothy. * 
“Surely you will not care to see those, Miss Manners.” 
“O lud, of course you must,”’ chimed in the Miss Stanley: 
“there is no spice in these flaps and flies.” z 
He led us accordingly into Druid’s Walk, overarched wit 
elms, and dark as the shades, our gentlemen singing, Og 
Lovers will contrive,” in chorus, the ladies exclaiming j 


5 


30 
z 
35 it 


f 





VAUXHALL 387 


drawing together. Then I felt a soft, restraining hold on my 
arm, and fell back instinctively, vibrating to the touch. 
“Could you not see that I have been trying to get a word 
with you for ever so long?”’ 
_ “T trust you to find a way, Dolly, if you but wish,”’ I re- s 
plied, admiring her stratagem. 
- “T am serious to-night. ” Indeed, her voice betrayed as 
much. How well I recall those rich and low tones! “I said 
U wished you shut up in the Marshalsea, and I meant it. I 
gave been worrying about you.”’ 10 
© ‘You make me very happy,” said I; which was no lie. 
I “Richard, you are every bit as reckless and indifferent of 
Janger as they say your father was. And I am afraid—”’ 
) “Of what?” [asked quickly. 
| “You once mentioned a name to me—”’ 15 
lim Yes?” | was breathing deep. 
| “T have forgiven you,” she said gently. “I never meant 
to have referred to that incident more. You will understand 
whom I mean. You must know that he is a dangerous man, 
and a treacherous. Oh!” she exclaimed, “‘I] have been in 20 
jourly terror ever since you rode against ‘him in Hyde Park. 
There! I have said it.’ 

be tense sweetness of that moment none will ever know. 
“But you have more reason to fear him than I, Dorothy.” 
| “Hush!” she Shae catching her breath; “‘what are 25 
jou saying?” 
_ “That he has more cause to fear me than I to dread him.’ 
L She came a little closer. 
“You stayed in London for me, Richard. Why did you? 
There was no need,” she exclaimed; ‘“‘there was no need, do 30 
you hear? Oh, I Salt never forgive Gomyn for his meddling! 
Lam sure ’twas he who told you some ridiculous story. He 
aad no foundation for it.’ 
t “Dorothy,” I demanded, my voice shaking with earnest- 
ress, “will you tell me honestly there is no foundation for 35 
the report that the duke is intriguing to marry you?’ 
That question was not answered, and regret came the 


a \ 


4 


388 RICHARD CARVEL 
instant it had left my lips—regret and conviction both. Doro 
thy joined Lady Carlisle before our absence had been noted 
and began to banter Fitzpatrick upon his losings. 

We were in the lighted Grove again, and sitting down to; 

ssupper of Vauxhall fare: transparent slices of ham (whiel 
had been a Vauxhall joke for ages), and chickens and cheese 
cakes and champagne and claret, and arrack punch. Mr 
Tyers extended the concert in our favour. Mrs. Weichsel 
and the beautiful Baddeley trilled sentimental ballads whiet 

ro our ladies chose; and Mr. Vernon, the celebrated tenor, sang 
Cupid’s Recruiting Sergeant so happily that Storer sent hin 
a bottle of champagne. After which we amused ourselves witl 
catches until the space between our boxes and the orchestri 
was filled. In the midst of this Comyn came quietly in fron 
1s the other box and took a seat beside me. 

“‘Chartersea is here to-night,”’ said he. 

I started. “How do you know?” 

“Tyers told me he turned up half an hour since. Ton 
asked his Grace to join our party,’’ his Lordship laughed 

20 ‘‘ Duke said no—he was to be here only half an hour, am 
Tom did not push him. He told me as a joke, and think 
Chartersea came to meet some petite.” 

“Anyone with him?” I asked. 

“Yes. Tall, dark man, one eye cast,—that’s Lewis. They 

25 have come on some dirty work, Richard: Watch little Mar 
maduke. He has been fidgety as a cat all night.” 

“That’s true,” said I. Looking up, I caught Dorothy’s eye 
upon us, her lips parted, uneasiness and apprehension plan 
upon her face. Comyn dropped his voice still lower. 

30 “I believe she suspects something,”’ he said, rising. ‘‘Char 
tersea is gone off toward the Wilderness, so Tom says. Yor 
must not let little Marmaduke see him. If Manners gets uj 
to go, I will tune up Black-eyed Susan, and do you folloy 
on some pretext. If you are not back ina reasonable tim 

35 1’ll after you.” 

He had been gone scant three minutes before I heard hi 
clear voice singing A// in the Downs, and up | got, with | 





| : VAUXHALL 389 


recipitation far from politic, and stepped out of the box. Our 
ompany stared in surprise. But Dorothy rose clear from her 
hair. Lhe terror I saw stamped upon her face haunts me 
et, and I heard her call my name. 

‘I waited for nothing. Gaining the Grand Walk, I saw Mr. 5 
Wemaduke’ s insignificant ficure dodging fearfully among the 
pughs, whose hour it was. He traversed the Cross Walk, and 
wenty yards farther on dived into an opening in the high 
edge bounding the Wilderness. Before he had made six 
faces | had him by, the shoulder, and he let out a shriek of 10 
‘ight like a woman’s. 

“Tt is I, Richard Carvel, Mr. Manners,” I said shortly. I 
ould not keep out the contempt from my tone. “I beg a 
ford with you.” 

‘In his condition then words were impossible. His teeth rat- 15 
ed again, and he trembled like a hare caught alive. I kept 
y hold of him, and employed the time until he should A 
‘ore composed peering into the darkness. For all I knew 
hartersea might be within earshot. But I could see nothing 
‘at black trunks of trees. Ae 
(What is it, Richard?” 

“You are going to meet are. I said. 

| He must have seen the futility of a lie, or else was scared 
it of all contrivance. “Yes,” he said weakly. 

/ “You have allowed it to become the talk of there that this 25 
\ehy nobleman is blackmailing you for your daughter,” I went 
‘1, without wasting words. “Tell me, is it, or is 1t not, true?’ 

‘As he did not answer, I retained a handful of the grained 
Ik on his shoulder as a measure of precaution. 

'“Ts this so?” I repeated. 30 
/“You must know, I suppose,” he said, under his breath, and 
‘ith a note of sullenness. 

)*T must,” I said firmly. ‘The Promledae is the weapon I 
#ed, for I, too, am going to meet Chartersea. ’ 

‘He ceased quivering all at once. 35 
“You are going to meet him!” he cried, in another voice. 
Yes, yes, it is so,—it is so. I will tell you all.” 





390 RICHARD. CARVEL . | 


“Keep it to yourself, Mr. Manners,” I replied, with repu: 
nance, “I have heard all I wish. Where is he?” I de 
manded. i 
“Hold the path until you come to him. And Go 
sbless—” - f 
~ | shook my head. 
“No, not that! Do you go back to the company and mak 
some excuse for me. Do not alarm them.’ And if you get th 
chance, tell Lord Comyn where to come.” $i 
‘oI waited until I saw him under the lights of the Gran 
Walk, and fairly running. Then I swung on my heel. I wa 
of two minds whether to wait for Comyn, by far the wise 
course. The unthinking recklessness I had inherited droy 


me on. 


oo 


CHAPTER XLI 


THE WILDERNESS 


|My eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, and pres- 
atly I made out a bench ahead, with two black figures start- 
ig from it. One I should have known on the banks of the 

x. From each came a separate oath as I stopped abreast 
nem, and called the duke by name. 

“Mr. Carvel!” he cried; “what the devil do you here, sir?” 
“Tl am come to keep an appointment for Mr. Manners,” I 
ud. ‘May I speak to your Grace alone?” 

/He made a peculiar sound by sucking in his breath, meant 
yr a sneering laugh. ro 
_~ No,” says, he, “damned if you shall. I have nothing 
1 common with you, sir. So love for Miss Manners has 
riven you mad, my young upstart. And he is not the first, 
ewis.” 

Nor the last, by G—,” says the captain. I 
“I have a score to settle with you, d—n you!” cried Char- 
“rsea. 

'* That is why I am here, your Grace,” I replied; “only you 
ave twisted the words. There has been foul play enough. I 
ave come to tell you,” I cried, boiling with anger, “I have 20 
sme to tell you there has been foul play enough with a weak- 
ng that cannot protect himself, and to put an end to your 
ackmail.”’ 

‘In the place of an oath, a hoarse laugh of derision came out 
‘him. But I was too angry then to note its significance. 2s 

slapped his face—nay, boxed it so that my palm stung. I 
eard his sword scraping out of the scabbard, and drew mine, 
fepping back to distance at the same instant. Then, with 
mething of a shudder, I remembered young Atwater, and a 


391 





5 













392 RICHARD CARVEL ie 


brace of other instances of his villainy. I looked for th 
captain. He was gone. 

Our blades, the duke’s and mine, came together with a rin 
and I felt the strength of his wrist behind his, and of h 

s short, powerful arm. The steel sang with our quick change 
from quarte to tierce. >was all by the feeling, without li 
to go by, and hatred between us left little space for skill. 
lunges were furious. *[was not long before I felt his | Z 
my chest, but his reach was scant. All at once the mus} 

ro swelled up: voices and laughter were wafted faintly from th 
pleasure-world of lights beyond. But my head was filled, t 
the exclusion of all ‘else, with a hatred and fury. And (Go 
forgive me!) from between my teeth came a prayer that if 
might kill this monster, I would die willingly. 

15 suddenly, as I pressed him, he shifted ground, and thet 
was Lewis standing within range of my eye. His hands wei 
nowhere—they were behind his back! God alone knows wh 
he had not murdered me. To keep Chartersea between hn 
and me I swung another quarter. The duke seemed to s¢ 

20my game, struggled against it, tried to rush in under m 
guard, made a vicious lunge that would have ended me the 
and there had he not slipped. We were both panting like wil 
beasts. When next I raised my eyes Lewis had faded into th 
darkness. ‘Then I felt my head as wet as from a plunge, th 

25 Water running on my brow, and my back twitching. Ever 
second [ thought the sting of his sword was between my rib 
But to forsake the duke would have been the maddest < 
follies. 

In that moment of agony came footsteps beating on tl 

30 path, and by tacit consent our swords were still. We listene 

“Richard! Richard Carvel!” | 

For the second time in my life I thanked Heaven for th; 
brave and loyal English heart. I called back, but my thro 
was dry and choked. 

35 “So they are at their d—d assassins’ tricks again! Y. 
need have no fear of one murderer.” 

With that their steels rang out behind me like broadswell 


| 
> 


? 


F THE WILDERNESS 393 
Lewis wasting his breath in curses and blasphemies. I began 
to push Chartersea with all my might, and the wonder of it 
was that we did not fight with our fingers on each other’s 
necks. His attacks, too, redoubled. Twice I felt the sting 
of his point, once in the hand, and once in the body, but Is 
minded them as little as pin-pricks. I was sure I had touched 
him, too. I heard him blowing distressedly. The casks of 
wine he had drunk in his short life were telling now, and his 
thrusts grew weaker. That fiercest of all joys—of killing an 
énemy—was in me, when I heard a cry that rang in my ears 10 
for pany a year afterward, and the thud of a body on the 
ground. 

eer have done for him, your Grace,” says Lewis, with an 
path; and added immediately, “I think I hear people.” 

| Before I had reached my Lord the captain repeated this, 1s 
and excitedly begged the duke, I believe, to fy. Chartersea 
hissed out that he would not move a step until he had finished 
me, and as I bent over the body his point popped through my 
Coat, and the pain shot under my shoulder. I staggered, and 
fell. A second of ‘silence ensued, when the duke said with a 20 
laugh that was a cackle:— 

_ “He won’t marry her, d—n him!” (panting). “He had me 
cursed near killed, Lewis. Best give him another for luck.” 

| I felt his heavy hand on the sword, and it tearing out of me. 
Next came the single word “Dover,” and they were gone. I 25 
had not lost my senses, and was on my knees again immedi- 
ately, ripping open Comyn’s waistcoat with my left hand, and 
Murmuring his name in an agony of sorrow. I was searching 
under his shirt, wet with blood, when I became aware of voices 
it my side. “A duel! A murder! Call the warders! Ward- 30 
ers, ho!”’ 


“A surgeon!” I cried. “A surgeon first of all!” 
| Some one had wrenched a lamp from the Grand Walk and 
held it, flickering in the wind, before his Lordship’s face. 
suided by its light, more people came running through the 35 
wood, then the warders with lanthorns, headed by Mr. Tyers, 


and on top of him Mr. Fitzpatrick and my Lord Carlisle. We 







394 RICHARD CARVEL | \ 


carried poor Jack to the house at the gate, and closed the 
doors against the crowd. i 
By the grace of Heaven Sir Charles Blicke was walking in 
the gardens that night, and, battering at the door, was ad. 
5 mitted along with the constable and the watch. Assisted by 
a young apothecary, Sir Charles washed and dressed the 
wound, which was in the left groin, and to our anxious ques 
tions replied that there was a chance of recovery. 
‘But you, too, are hurt, sir,” he said, turning his clear eye 
roupon me. Indeed, the blood had been dripping from my hane 
and arm during the whole of the operation, and I began to bi 
weak from the loss of it. By great good fortune Chartersea 
thrust, which he thought had ended my life, passed under mj 
armpit from behind and, stitching the skin, lodged deep in my 
xs right nipple. This wound the surgeon bound carefully, anc 
likewise two smaller ones. . 
The constable was for carrying me to the Marshalsea. Am 
so I was forced to tell that I had quarrelled with Chartersea 
and the watch, going out to the scene of the fight, discoverei 
20 the duke’s sword which he had pulled out of me, and Lewis’ 
laced hat; and also a trail of blood leading from the spot 
Mr. Tyers testified that he had seen Chartersea that night 
and Lord Carlisle and Fitzpatrick to the grudge the duke bor 
me, and I[ was given my liberty. _ 
2; Comyn was taken to his house in Brook Street, Grosveno 
Square, in Sir Charles’s coach, whither I insisted upon preced 
ing him. ’Twas on the way there that Fitzpatrick told m 
Dorothy had fainted when she heard the alarm—a piece ¢ 
news which added to my anxiety. We called up the dowage 
3o countess, Comyn’s mother, and Carlisle broke the news to hei 
mercifully lightening me of a share of the blame. Her Lady 
ship received the tidings with great fortitude; and instead ¢ 
the torrent of reproaches I looked for, and deserved, she in 
plored me to go home and care for my injuries lest I gi 
3s the fever. I believe that [ burst into tears. | 
His Lordship was carried up the stairs with never a word ¢ 
a groan from his lips, and his heart beating out slowly. 


P| 


ol 


THE WILDERNESS 395 


We reached my lodgings as the watchman was crying: 
‘Past two o'clock, and a windy morning!” 


oMr. Fitzpatrick stayed with me that night. And the next 
forning, save for the soreness of the cuts ‘T had got, I found 
nyself well as ever. I was again to thank the robustness 5 
if my health. ha the protests of Banks and Fitzpatrick, 
ind of Mr. Fox (who arrived early, not having been to bed 
it all), I jumped into a chaise and drove to Brook 
treet. There I had the good fortune to get the greatest 
oad from my mind. Comyn was resting so much easier 10 
hat the surgeon had left, and her Ladyship retired two 
tours since. 
The day was misting and dark, but so vast was my relief 
hat I imagined the sun was out as I rattled toward Arling- 
ion Street. If only Dolly were not ill again from the shock, I 15 
thould be happy indeed. She must have heard, ere then, that 
_was not killed; and I had still better news to tell hen than 
hat of Lord Comyn’s condition. Mr. Fox, who got every 
‘umour that ran, had shouted after me that the duke and 
vewis were set out for France. How he knew I had not 20 
vaited to inqure. But the report tallied with my own sur- 
Mise, for they had used the word “Dover”’ when they left us 
or dead in the Wilderness. 
I dismissed my chaise at the door. 
Mr. Manners waits on you, sir, in the drawing-room,” 25 
aid the footman. “Your honour is here sooner than he 
ooked for,” he added gratuitously. 
| _ pooner than he looked for?”’ 

“Yes, sir. James is gone to you but quarter of an hour 

ce with a message, sir.”’ 30 
Iwas puzzled. 

_ “And Miss Manners? Is she well?” 

~The man smiled. 

“Very well, sir, thank your honour.” 

To add to my surprise, Mr. Marmaduke was pacing the 3s 
wing-room in a yellow nightgown. He met me with an 











396 RICHARD CARVEL 3 
expression I failed to fathom, and then my eye was held bya 
letter in his hand. He cleared his throat. ¥ 

“Good morning, Richard,” said he, very serious,— very 
pompous, I thought. “‘I am pleased to see that you are se 

s well out of the deplorable affair of last night.” | 

I had not looked for gratitude. In truth, I had done noth- 
ing for him, and Chartersea might have exposed him a high- 
wayman for all I cared,—I had fought for Dolly. But this 
attitude astonished me. I was about to make a tart reply, 

xo and then thought better of it. 

“Walter, a decanter of wine for Mr. Carvel,’’ says he te 
the footman. Then to me: “I am rejoiced to hear that Lord 
Comyn is out of danger.” 

I merely stared at him. j 

rs ‘Will you sit?” he continued. “To speak truth, the An 
napolis packet came in last night with news for you. Know: 
ing that you have not had time to hear from Maryland, } 
sent for you.”’ 

My brain was in such a state that for the moment I took nc 

20 meaning from this introduction. I was conscious only of im 
dignation against him for sending for me, when for all ht 
knew I might have been unable to leave my bed. Suddenly 
I jumped from the chair. 

“You have heard from Maryland?” I cried. “Is Mr. Car 

2s vel dead? Oh, tell me, is Mr. Carvel dead?”” And I clutchec 
his arm to make him wince. : 

He nodded, and turned away. ‘‘My dear old friend is m 
more,” he said. ‘Your grandfather passed away on th 
seventh of last month.”’ 

30. 1 sank into a chair and bowed my face, a flood of recollee 

tions overwhelming me, a thousand kindnesses of my grand 
father coming to mind. One comfort alone stood forth. 
even had I gone home with John Paul, I had missed him. 
But that he should have died alone with Grafton, brought th 
35 tears brimming to my eyes. I had thought to be there t 
receive his last words and blessing, to watch over him, and t 
smooth his pillow. Who had he else in the world to bear hir 


if THE WILDERNESS 397 


affection on his deathbed? The imagination of that scene 
drove me mad. 

Mr. Manners aroused me by a touch, and I looked up 
quickly. So quickly that I surprised the trace of a smile about 
his weak mouth. Were I to die to-morrow, I would swear to s 
this on the Evangels. Nor wasit the smile which compels itself 
apon the weak in serious moments. Nay, there was in it 
something malicious. And Mr. Manners could not even act. 

“There is more, Richard,” he was saying; “‘there is worse 
to come. Can you bear it?” 10 

His words and look roused me from my sorrow. I have 
aver been short of temper with those I disliked, and (alas!) 
with my friends also. And now all my pent-up wrath against 
this little man broke forth. I divined his meaning, and for- 
yot that he was Dorothy’s father. Is 

“Worse?”’ I shotited; while he gave back in his alarm. 
"Do you mean that Grafton has got possession of the estate? 
[s that what you mean, sir?’ 

*“Yes,”’ he gasped, “yes. I pray you be ein. 

“And you call that worse than losing my dearest friend on 20 
sarth:”’ I cried. There must have been an infinite scorn in 
my voice. “‘Then your standards and mine are different, Mr. 
Manners. Your ways and mine are different, and I thank God 
for it. You have played more than one double part with me. 
You looked me in the face and denied me, and left me to go 25 
to a prison. I shall not repeat my grandfather’s kindnesses 
to you, sir. Though you may not recall them, I do. And if 
your treatment of me was known in Maryland, you would 
be drummed out of the colony even as Mr. Hood was, and 
hung in efhgy.” 30 

“As God hears me, Richard—” 

“Do not add perjury to it,” I said. “And have no uneasi- 
aess that I shall publish you. Your wife and daughter have 
saved you before,—they will save you now.”’ 

_I paused, struck speechless by a suspicion that suddenly 35 
lashed into my head. A glance at the contemptible 
form cowering within the folds of the flowered gown clinched 


bed 


398 RICHARD CARVEL 





it to a conviction. In two strides I had seized him by the 
skin over his ribs, and he shrieked with pain and 
fright. 
““You—you snake!” I cried, in uncontrollable anger. “- 
s well knew Dorothy’s spirit, which she has not got from you, 
and you lied to her. Yes, lied, I say. To force her to ma 
Chartersea you made her believe that your precious honow 
was in danger. And you lied to me last night, and sent me ir 
the dark to fight two of the most treacherous villains in Eng 
roland. You wish they had killed me. The plot was between 
you and his Grace. You, who have not a cat’s courage, com: 
oe an indiscretion! You never made one in your life. Tel 
” T cried, shaking him until his teeth smote together, “wai 
BS noe put up between you?” 
15 ‘Let me go! Let me go, and I will tell!” he wailed in th 
agony of my grip. I tightened it the more. 
“You shall confess it “first,” I said, from between my teeth 
Scarce had his lips formed the word yes, when I had flung 
him half across the room. He tripped on his gown, and fel 
20 sprawling on his hands. So the servant found us when hi 
came back with the tray. The lackey went out again hastily 
“My God!” I exclaimed, in bitterness and disgust; “yot 
are a father, and would sell both your daughter and your hon 
our for a title, and to the filthiest wretch in the kingdom?’ 
2s Without bestowing upon him another look, I turned on mj 
heel and left the room. I had set my foot on the stair, whet 
I heard the rustle of a dress, and the low voice which I kney 
so well calling my name. Pi 
“Richard.” 4 
30 [here at my side was Dorothy, even taller in her paleness 
with sorrow and agitation in her blue eyes. 

“Richard, I have heard all,—I listened. Are you eoiny 
away without a’ word for.mé?”  Hetibreaehiennn fast, am 
mine, as she laid a hand upon my arm. “ Richard, I do no 

35 care whether you are poor. What was I saying?” she crie« 
wildly. “‘Am I false to my own father? Richard, what haw 
you done?” 








THE WILDERNESS 399 


_ And then, while I stood dazed, she tore open her gown, and 
lrawing forth a little gold locket, pressed it in my palm. 
“The flowers you gave me on your birthday,—the lilies of 
the valley, do you remember? They are here, Richard. I 
jave worn them upon my heart ever since.” 5 
| I raised the locket to my lips. 

“T shall treasure it for your sake, Dorothy,” I said, “for 
the sake of the old days. God keep you!” 
_ For a moment I looked into the depths of her eyes. Then 
she was gone, and I went down the stairs alone. Outside, the ro 
‘ain fell unheeded on my new coat. My steps bent southward, 
past Whitehall, where the martyr Charles had met death so 
aobly: past the stairs to the river, where she had tripped with 
me so gayly not a month since. Death was in my soul that 
day,—death and love, which is the mystery of life. God rs 
suided me into the great Abbey near by, where I fell on my 
knees before Him and before England’s dead. He had raised 
them and cast them down, even as He was casting me, that I 
might come to know the glory of His holy name. 










CHAPTER XLII 


MY FRIENDS ARE PROVEN 


At the door of my lodgings I was confronted by Banks 
red with indignation and fidgety from uneasiness. 
“© Lord, Mr. Carvel, what has happened, sir?” he criec 
“Your honour’s agent ’as been here since noon. Must | tak 
5 orders from the likes o’ him, sir?” 
Mr. Dix was indeed in possession of my rooms, lounging i 
the chair Dolly had chosen, smoking my tobacco. I stared a 
him from the threshold. Something in my appearance, 0 
force of habit, or both brought him to his feet, and wipec 
io away the smirk from his face. He put down the pipe guiltily 
I told him shortly that I had heard the news which he mus 
have got by the packet: and that he should have his money 
tho’ it took the rest of my life: and the ten per cent I hac 
promised him provided he would not press my Lord Comyn 
1s He hesitated, and drummed on the table. He was the mat 
of business again. 
“What security am I to have, Mr. Carvel?” he asked. 
“My word,” I said. “It has never yet been broken, | than] 
God, nor my father’s before me. And hark ye, Mr. Dix, yor 

20 shall not be able to say that of Grafton.” Truly I though 
the principle and agent were now well matched. 

“Very good, Mr. Carvel,” he said; “ten per cent. I shal 
call with the papers on Monday morning.” 
“T shall not run away before that,”’ I replied. 

25 He got out, with a poor attempt at a swagger, without hi 
customary protestations of duty and humble offers of service 
And I thanked Heaven he had not made a scene, which in m: 
state of mind I could not have borne, but must have law 
hands upon him. Perhaps he believed Grafton not yet secur 


400 


MY FRIENDS ARE PROVEN 401 


im his title. I did not wonder then, in the heat of my youth, 
that he should have accepted my honour as security. But 
since | have marvelled not a little at this. The fine gentle- 
ten at Brooks’s with whom I had been associating were none 
too scrupulous, and regarded money-lenders as legitimate 5 
prey. Debts of honour they paid but tardily, if at all. A cer- 
tain nobleman had been owing my Lord Carlisle thirteen 
thousand pounds for a couple of years, that his Lordship had 
won at hazard. And tho’ I blush to write it, Mr. Fox himself 
was notorious in such matters, and was in debt to each of 10 
ithe coterie of fashionables of which he was the devoted 
chief. 

| The faithful Banks vowed, with tears in his eyes, that he 
jwould never desert me. And in that moment of dejection the 
poor fellow’s devotion brought me no little comfort. At such rs 
‘times the heart is bitter. We look askance at our friends, and 
make the task of comfort doubly hard for those that remain 
true. | had a great affection for the man, and had become so 
jused to his ways and unwearying service that I had not the 
courage to refuse his prayers to go with me to America. I had 20 
not a farthing of my own—he would serve me for nothing— 
nay, work for me. “Sure,” he said, taking off my coat and 
bringing me my gown,—“‘Sure, your honour was not made to 
work.”’ To cheer me he went on with some foolish footman’s 
gossip that there lacked not ladies with jointures who would 2s 
marry me, and be thankful. I smiled sadly. 

_ “That was when I was Mr. Carvel’s heir, Banks.” 

“And your face and figure, sir, and masterful ways! Faith, 
and what more would a lady want!” Banks’s notions of 
morality were vague enough, and he would have had me sink 30 
what I had left at hazard at Almack’s. He had lived in this 
atmosphere. Alas! there was little chance of my ever regain- 
ing the position I had held but yesterday. I thought of the 
Sponging-house, and my brow was moist. England was no 
place, in those days, for fallen gentlemen. With us in the 35 
colonies the law offered itself. Mr. Swain and other barris- 
ers of Annapolis came to my mind, for God had given me 











402 RICHARD CARVEL on | 


courage. I would try the law. For I had small hopes r 
defeating my Uncle Grafton. 

The Sunday morning dawned brightly, and the church bal 
ringing brought me to my feet, and out into Piccadilly, in the 

s forlorn hope that I might see my lady on her way to morning 
service,—see her for the last time in life, perhaps. Her locket 
I wore over my heart. It had lain upon hers. To see her was 
the most exquisite agony in the world. But not to see her, 
and to feel that she was scarce quarter of a mile away, was 
1o beyond endurance. I stood beside an area at the entrance to 
Arlington Street, and waited for an hour, quite in vain; 
watching every face that passed, townsmen in their ill-fitting 
Sunday clothes, and fine ladies with the footmen carrying vel- 
vet prayerbooks. And some that I knew only stared, and 
15 others gave me distant bows from their coach windows. For 
those that fall from fashion are dead to fashion. is 

Dorothy did not go to church that day. 

It is a pleasure, my dears, when writing of that hour of bil 
terness, to record the moments of sweetness which lightened 

20it. As J climbed up:to my rooms in Dover Street, I heard 
merry sounds above, and a cloud of smoke blew out of the 
door when I opened it. 

“Here he is,”’ cried Mr. Fox. “ You see, Richard, we havi 
not deserted you when we can win no more of your money.” 

25 ‘Why, egad! the man looks as if he had had a calamity,’ 
said Mr. Fitzpatrick. 

‘“‘And there is not a Jew here,” Fox continued. ‘Tho’ ; 
is Sunday, the air in my Jerusalem chamber is as bad as it 
any crimp’s den in St. Giles’s. ’Slife, and I live to be forty 

301 shall have as many underground avenues as his Majes@ 
Louis the Eleventh.’ . 

“‘He must have a place,”’ put in my Lord Carlisle. 4 

“We must do something for him,” said Fox, “albeit he ij 
an American and a Whig, and all the rest of the execrations 

3s Lhou wilt have to swallow thy golden opinions, my buckskin 
when we put thee in office.” i 
I was too overwhelmed even to protest. e | 


MY FRIENDS ARE PROVEN 403 


“You are not in such a cursed bad way, when all is said, 
Richard,” said Fitzpatrick. ‘‘Charles, when he loses a for- 
tune, immediately borrows another.” 

“If you stick to whist and quinze,” said Charles, solemnly, 
giving me the advice they were forever thrusting upon him, s 
“and play with system, you may make as much as four thou- 

sand a year, sir. 

And this was how I was treated by those heathen and cyni- 
cal macaronies, Mr. Fox’s friends. I may not say the same 
for the whole of Brooks’s Club, tho’ I never darkened its doors 10 
afterwards. But I encountered my Lord March that after- 
noon, and got only a blank stare in place of a bow. 

Charles had collected (Heaven knows how!) the thousand 
pounds which he stood in my debt, and Mr. Storer and-Lord 
Carlisle offered to lend me as hueh as I chose. I had somers 
dithculty in refusing, and more still in denying Charles when 
he pressed me to go with them to Richmond, where he had 
rooms for play over Sunday. 

Banks brought me the news that Lord Comyn was sitting 
up, and had been asking for me that day; that he was recover- 20 
ing beyond belief. But I was resolved not to go to Brook 
Street until the money affairs were settled on Monday with 
Mr. Dix, for I knew well that his Lordship would insist upon 
carrying out with the agent the contract he had so generously 
and hastily made, rather than let me pay an abnormal inerest. 25 

On Monday I rose early, and went out for a bit of air before 
the scene with Mr. Dix. Returning, I saw a coach with his 
Lordship’s arms on the panels, and there was Comyn himself 
mm my great chair at the window, whee he had been de- 
posited by Banks and his footman. I stared as on one risen 30 
Pe the dead. 

“Why, Jack, what are you doing here?”’ I cried. 

_ He replied very off hand, as was his manner at such times:— 
| “Blicke vows that Chartersea and Lewis have qualified for 
he College of Surgeons,” says he. ‘‘ They are both born anato- 35 
ists. Your job under the arm was the worst bungle of the 
‘two, egad, for Lewis put his sword, pat as you please, between 







a, 

404. RICHARD CARVEL \ 

\ 7 
two of my organs (cursed if I know their names), and not 
so much as scratched one.” 
“Look you, Jack,”’ said I, “I am not deceived. You have 
no right to be here, and you know it.” 
5s ‘Tush!’ answered his Lordship; “I am as well as you.” 
And he took snuff to prove the assertion. “‘ Why the devil were 
you not in Brook Street yesterday to tell me that your uncle 
had swindled you? I thought I was your friend,” says he, 
“and I learn of your misfortune through others.” 

ro “It is because you are my friend, and my best friend, that] 
would not worry you when you lay next door to death on my 
account,’ I said, with emotion. . 

And just then Banks announced Mr. Dix. 
“Let him wait,” said J, greatly disturbed. 

1s ‘© Show him up!” said my Lord, peremptorily. 

“No, no!” I protested; “he can wait. We shall have n¢ 
business now.”’ | 

But Banks was gone. And I found out, long afterward, 
that it was put up between them. 

20 The agent swaggered in with that easy assurance he as 
sumed whenever he got the upper hand. He was the would-be 
squire once again, in top-boots and a frock. I have rarely seer 
a man put out of countenance so easily as was Mr. Dix that 
morning when he met his Lordship’s fixed gaze from the 

25 armchair. ‘ 

“And so you are turned Jew?” says he, tapping his snuff: 
box. “Before you go ahead so fast again, you will please tc 
remember, d—n you, that Mr. Carvel is the kind that doe: 
not lose his friends with his fortune.” ) 

30 Mr. Dix made a salaam, which was so ludicrous in a squirt 
that my Lord roared with laughter, and I feared for his wound 

“A man must live, my Lord,” sputtered the agent. His 
discomfiture was painful. 

“At the expense of another,” says Comyn, dryly. ‘‘That i 

35 your motto in Change Alley.” . 

“Tf you will permit, Jack, I must have a few words if 
private with Mr. Dix,” I cut in uneasily. 





MY FRIENDS ARE PROVEN tos 


' His Lordship would be damned first. “I am not accustomed 
to be thwarted, Richard, I tell you. Ask the dowager if I 
have not Always had my way. I am not going to stand by 
| San see a man who saved my life fall into ‘the clutches of an 
usurer. Yes, I said usurer, Mr. Dix. My attorney, Mr. Ken- 5 
nett, of Lincoln’s Inn, has instructions to settle with you.” 
| And, despite all I could say, he would not budge an inch. 
tiset Feubmitted under the threat that he would never after 
have a word to say to me. By good luck, when I had paid 
‘into Mr. Dix’s hand the thousand. pounds Thad received from ro 
Charles Fox, and cleared my outstanding bills, the sum I 
femained in Comyn’s debt was not greatly above seven hun- 
dred pounds. And that was the end of Mr. Dix for me; when 
he had backed himself out in chagrin at having lost his ten 
per centum, my feelings got the ‘better of me. The water 15 
‘rushed to my eyes, and "T turned my back upon his Lordship. 
To conceal his own emotions he fell to swearing like mad. 

Fox will get you something,” he said at length, when he 
was a little calmed. 

I told him, sadly, that my duty took me to America. 20 

“And Dorothy?” he said; “you will leave her?”’ 

I related the whole miserable story (all save the part of the 
locket), for I felt that I owed it him. His excitement grew 
as he listened, until I had to threaten to stop to keep him 
quiet. But when I had done, he saw nothing but good to 25 
come of it. 

*°Qd’s life! Richard, lad, come here!”’ he cried. “‘Give me 
your hand. Why, you ass, you have won a thousand times 
over what you lost. She loves you! Did I not say so? And 
as for that intriguing little puppy, her father, you have pulled 30 
his teeth, egad. She heard what you said to him, you tell me. 
‘Then he will never deceive her again, my word on’t. And 
Chartersea may come back to London, and be damned.” 





CHAPTER XLII 


ANNAPOLIS ONCE MORE 4 


THREE days after that I was at sea, in the Norfolk packet 
with the farewells of my loyal English friends ringing in my 
ears. Captain Graham, the master of the packet, and his pas- 
sengers found me but a poor companion. But they had heard 

; of my misfortune, and vied with each other in heaping kind- 
nesses upon me. Nor did they intrude on my walks in the 
night watches, to see me slipping a locket from under my 
waistcoat—ay, and raising it to my lips. *[was no doubt a 
blessing that I had lesser misfortunes to share my attention, 

ro God had put me in the way of looking forward rather tha 
behind, and I was sure that my friends in Annapolis oa 
help me to an honest living, and fight my cause against 
Grafton. } 
Banks was with me. The devoted soul did his best to cheer 
15 me, tho’ downcast himself at leaving England. To know what 
to do with him gave me many an anxious moment. I doubted 
not that I could get him into a service, but when I spoke of 
such a thing he burst into tears, and demanded whether I 
meant to throw him off. Nor was any argument of mine 
20 Of use. ; 

After a fair and uneventful voyage of six weeks, I beheld 
again my native shores in the low spits of the Virginia capes. 
The sand was very hot and white, and the waters of the Chesa= 
peake rolled like oil under the July sun. We were all day 

25 getting over to Yorktown, the ship’s destination. A schooner 
was sailing for Annapolis early the next morning, and I barely 
had time to get off my baggage and catch her. We went up 
the bay with a fresh wind astern, which died down at night. 
The heat was terrific after England and the sea voyage, and 


406 





ANNAPOLIS ONCE MORE 407 


we slept on the deck. And Banks sat, most of the day, ex- 
claiming at the vast scale on which this new country was laid 
out, and wondering at the myriad islands we passed, some of 
them fair with grain and tobacco; and at the low-lying shores 
clothed with forests, and broken by the salt marshes, with s - 
now and then the manor house of some gentleman-planter 
visible on either side. Late on the second day I beheld again 
the cliffs that mark the mouth of the Severn, then the sail- 
dotted roads and the roofs of Annapolis. 

We landed, Banks and I, in a pinnace from the schooner, 10 
and so full was my heart at the sight of the old objects that 
I could only gulp now and then, and utter never a word. 
There was the dock where I had paced up and down near the 
whole night, when Dolly had sailed away; and Pryse the 
coachmaker’s shop, and the little balcony upon which I had rs 
stood with my grandfather, and railed in a boyish tenor at 
Mr. Hood. The-sun cast sharp, black shadows. And it being 
the middle of the dull season, when the quality were at their 
seats, and the dinner-hour besides, the town might have been 
a deserted one for its stillness, as tho’ the inhabitants had 20 
walked out of it, and left it so. I made my way, Banks be- 
hind me, into Church Street, past the “Ship” tavern, which 
brought memories of the brawl there, and of Captain Clapsad- 
dle forcing the mob, like chaff, before his sword. The bees 
were humming idly over the sweet-scented gardens, and Far- 2s 
tis, the clock-maker, sat at his door, and nodded. He jerked 
his head as I went by with a cry of “Lord, it is Mr. Richard 
back!” and I must needs pause, to let him bow over my hand. 
Farther up the street I came to mine host of the Coffee House 
standing on his steps, with his hands behind his back. 30 

“Mr. Claude,” I said. 

He looked at me as tho’ I had risen from the dead. 
__ “God save us!” he shouted, in a voice that echoed through 
the narrow street. ‘God save us!” 
_ He seemed to go all to pieces. To my bated questions he 35 
replied at length, when he had got his breath, that Captain 
Clapsaddle had come to town but the day before, and was even 





408 RICHARD CARVEL 


then in the coffee-room at his dinner. Alone? Yes, alone. 
Almost tottering, I mounted the steps, and turned in at the 
coffee-room door, and stopped. There sat the captain at a 
table, the roast and wine untouched before him, his waistcoat 

5 thrown open. He was staring out of the open window into the 
inn garden beyond, with its shade of cherry trees. Mr. 
Claude’s .cry had not disturbed his reveries, nor our 
talk after it. I went forward. I touched him on the shoul- 
der, and he sprang up and looked once into my face, and by 

1o some trick of the mind uttered the very word Mr. Claude 
had used. 

“God save us! Richard!’ And he opened his arms and 
strained me to his great chest, calling my name again and 
again, while the tears coursed down the furrows of his cheeks. 

ts For I marked the furrows for the first time, and the wrinkles 
settling in his forehead and around his eyes. What he said 
when he released me, nor my replies, can I remember now, but 
at last he called, in his ringing voice, to mine host:— 

“A bottle from your choicest bin, Claude! Some of Mr. 

20 Bordley’s. For he that was lost is found.”’ 

The hundred questions I had longed to ask were forgotten. 
A peace stole upon me that I had not felt since I had looked 
upon his face before. The wine was brought by Mr. Claude 
and opened, and it was mine host who broke the silence, and 

25 the spell. 

“Your very good health, Mr. Richard,” he said; “‘and may 
you come to your own again!”’ 

“T drink it with all my heart, Richard,” replied Captain 
Daniel. But he glanced at me sadly, and his honest nature 

30 could put no hope into his tone. “We have got him back 
again, Mr. Claude. And God has answered our prayers. So 
let us be thankful.’’ And he sat down in silence, gazing at me 
in pity and tenderness, while Mr. Claude withdrew. > ikicam 
give you but a sad welcome home, my lad,”’ he said presently, 

35 with a hesitation strange to him. “’ Tis not the first bad news 
I have had to break i in my life to your family, but I pray it 
may be the last.” He paused. I knew he was thinking of 


ANNAPOLIS ONCE MORE 409 


the black tidings he had once brought my mother. “Richard, 
your grandfather is dead,” he ended abruptly. 

I nodded wonderingly. 

“What!” he exclaimed; “you have heard already?” 

Sepeg Manners told me, 85 London,” I said, completely mys- 5 
tinea. 

““London!”’ he cried, starting forward. “‘London and Mr. 
Manners! Have you been to London?” 

“You had my letters to Mr. Carvel?”’ I demanded, turning 
suddenly sick. 10 

His eye flashed. 

‘‘ Never a letter. We mourned you for dead, Richard. This 
is Grafton’s work!” he cried, springing to his feet and strik- 
ing the table with his great fist, so that the dishes jumped. 
“Grafton Carvel, the prettiest villain in these thirteen colo- 15 
nies! Oh, we shall hang him some day.”’ 

“Then Mr. Carvel died without knowing that I was safe?”’ 

I interrupted. 

“On that I'll lay all my worldly goods,”’ replied Captain 
Daniel, emphatically. “If any letters came to Marlboro’ 20 
Street from you, Mr. Carvel never dropped eyes on ’em.” 

“What a fool was I not to have written you!” I groaned. 

He drew his chair around the table, and close to mine. 

“Had the news that you escaped death been cried aloud in 
the streets, my lad, ’twould never have got to your grand- 25 
father’s ear,”’ he said, in lower tones. “I will tell you what 
happened, tho’ [ have it at second hand, being in the North, as 
ae may remember. Grafton came in from Kent and invested 

arlboro’ Street. He himself broke the news to Mr. Carvel, 
who took to his bed. Leiden was not in attendance, you may 30 
be sure, but that quack-doctor Drake. Swain sent me a mes- 
sage, and I killed a horse getting here from New York. But I 
‘could no more gain admittance to your grandfather, Richard, 
‘than to King George the Third. I was met in the hall by that 
‘crocodile, who told me with too many fair words that I could 35 
not see my old friend; that for the present Dr. Drake denied 
nim everybody. Then I damned Dr. Drake, and Grafton too. 





410 RICHARD CARVEL 


And I let him know my suspicions. He ordered me off, Rich- 
ard—from that house which has been my only home for these 
twenty years.” His voice broke. 

“Mr. Carvel thought me dead, then. 

s ‘‘And most mercifully. Your black Hugo, when he was 
somewhat recovered, swore he had seen you killed and carried 
off. Sooth, they say there was blood enough on the place. 
But we spared no pains to obtain a clew of you. I went north 

to Boston, and Lloyd’s factor south to Charleston. But no 
ro trace of the messenger who came to the Coffee House after 
you could we find. Hell had opened and swallowed him. And 
mark this for consummate villany: Grafton himself spent no 
less than five hundred pounds in advertising and the like.” 

‘““And he is not suspected?” I asked. This was the same 

15 question I had put to Mrs. Manners. It caused the celth att 
to flare up again. 

“Tis incredible how a rogue may impose upon men of 
worth and integrity if he but knows how to smirk piously, and 
never miss a service. And then he is an exceeding rich man. 

20 Riches cover a multitude of sins in the most virtuous com- 
munity in the world. Your Aunt Caroline brought him a 
pretty fortune, you know. We had ominous times this spring, 
with the associations forming, and the Good Intent and the 
rest being sent back to England. His Excellency was at his 

25 wits’ end ‘for support. It was Grafton Carvel who helped him 
most, and spent money like tobacco for the King’s cause, 
which, being interpreted, was for his own advancement. But 
I believe Colonel Lloyd suspects him, tho’ he has never said 
as much to me. I have told Mr. Swain, under secrecy, what I 

30 think. He is one of the ablest lawyers that the colony owns, 
Richard, and a stanch friend of yours. He took your case 
of his own accord. But he says we have no foothold as yet.’ 

When I asked if there was a will the captain rapped out 
an oath. 

35 ‘’Sdeath! yes,” he cried, “‘a will in favour of Grafton and 
his heirs, witnessed by Dr. Drake, they say, and another 
scoundrel. Your name does not occur throughout the length 


99 


ANNAPOLIS ONCE MORE 4II 


and breadth of it. You were dead. But you will have to 

ask Mr. Swain for those particulars. My dear old friend was 

sadly gone when he wrote it, I fear. For he never lacked’ 
shrewdness in his best days. Nor,” added Captain Daniel, 

with force, “nor did he want for a proper estimation of 5 
Grafton.” 

“He had never been the same since that first sickness,”’ I 
answered sadly. 

When the captain came to speak of Mr. Carvel’s death, 
the son and daughter he loved, and the child of his old age in 10 
the grave before him, he proceeded brokenly, and the tears 
blinded him. Mr. Carvel’s last words will never be known, 
my dears. They sounded in the unfeeling ears of the serpent - 
Grafton. *“Twas said that he was seen coming out of his 
father’s house an hour after the demise, a smile on his face rs 
which he strove to hide with a pucker of sorrow. But by 
'God’s grace Mr. Allen had not read the prayers. ‘The rector 
was at last removed from Annapolis, and had obtained the fat 
living of Frederick which he coveted: 

_ “As I hope for salvation,” the captain concluded, “I will 20 
‘swear there is not such another villain in the world as Graf- 
‘ton. The imagination of a fiend alone could have conceived 
and brought to execution the crime he has committed. And 
ithe Borgias were children to him. *[was not only the love of 
money that urged him, but hatred of you and of your father. 25 
‘That was his strongest motive, I believe. However, the days 
‘are coming, lad, when he shall have his reward, unless all 
signs fail. And we have had enough of sober talk,” said he, 
‘pressing me to eat. “‘ Faith, but just now, when you came in, 
Bewas thinking of you, Richard. And—God forgive me!— 30 











complaining against the lot of my life. And thinking, now 
that you were taken out of it, and your father and mother and 
grandfather gone, how little I had to live for. Now you are 
ome again,” says he, his eyes lighting on me with affection. 
I count the gray hairs as nothing. Let us have your story, 35 
and be merry. Nay, I might have guessed you had been in 
London, with your fine clothes and your English servant.” 


412 RICHARD CARVEL 


*Twas a long story, as you know, my dears. He lighted his 
pipe and laid his big hand over mine, and filled my glass, and 
T told him most of that which had happened to me. But I left 
out the whole of that concerning Mr. Manners and the Duke 

sof Chartersea, nor did I speak of the sponging-house. I 
believe my only motive for this omittance was a reluctance to 
dwell upon Dorothy, and a desire to shield her father for her 
sake. He dropped many a vigorous exclamation into my 
pauses, but when I came to speak of my friendship with Mr. 

1o Fox, his brow clouded over. 

*“?Ad’s heart!” he cried, “‘’Ad’s heart! And so you are 
turned Tory, and have at last been perverted from those prin- 
ciples for which I loved you most. In the old days my con- 
science would not allow me to advise you, Richard, and now 

15 that I am free to speak, you are past advice.” 

I laughed aloud. 

“And what if I tell you that I made friends with his Grace 
of Grafton, and Lord Sandwich, and was invited to Hichin- 
broke, his Lordship’s seat?” said [i 

20 His honest face was a picture of consternation. 

“Now the good Lord deliver us!”’ he exclaimed fervently. 
“Sandwich! Grafton! The devil!” 

I gave myself over to the first real merriment I had had 
since [ had heard of Mr. Carvel’s death. 

2s “And when Mr. Fox learned that I had lost my fortune,” I 
went on, “‘he offered me a position under Government.” 

“Have you not friends enough at home to care for you, sir?” 
he said, his face getting purple. “Are you Jack Carvel’s son, 
or are you an impostor?”’ 

30 © 1am Jack Carvel’s son, dear Captain Daniel, and that is 
why [ am here,” I replied. “I am a stouter Whig than ever, 
and I believe I might have converted Mr. Fox himself had I 
remained at home sufficiently long,” I added, with a solemn 
face. And, for my own édincions I rélated how I ‘had 

35 bearded his Majesty’s friends at Brooks’s, whereat he gave a 
great, joyful laugh, and thumped me on the back. 

“You dog, Richard! You sly rogue!”” And he called to Mr. 


ANNAPOLIS ONCE MORE 413 


Claude for another bottle on the strength of that, and we 
pledged the Association. He peppered me with questions con- 
cerning Junius, and Mr. Wilkes, and Mr. Franklin of Phila- 
delphia. Had I seen him in London? “I would not doubt a 
Carvel’s word,” says the captain, “(always excepting Grafton 5 
and his line, as usual), but you may duck me on the stool and 
I comprehend why Mr. Fox and his friends took up with such 
a young rebel rapscallion as you—and after the speech you 
made’em.”’ 

I astounded him vastly by pointing out that Mr. Fox and 10 
his friends cared a deal for place, and not a fig for principle; 
that my frankness had entertained rather than offended them; 
and that, having a taste for a bit of wild life and the money to 
gratify it, and being of a tolerant, easy nature withal, I had ~ 
contrived to make many friends in that set, without aiming at rs 
influence. Whereat he gave me another lick between the 
shoulders. 

“It was so with Jack,” he cried; “thou art a replica. He 
would have made friends with the devil himself. In the 
French war, when all the rest of us Royal Americans were 20 
squabbling with his Majesty’s officers out of England, and 
cursing them at mess, they could never be got to fight with 
We tho’ he gave them ample provocation. ‘There was 

etherington, of the 22d foot,—who jeered us for damned 
provincials, and swaggered through three duels in a week,— 25 
would enter no quarrel with him. I can hear him say: ‘Damn 
you, Carvel, you may slap my face and you will, or walk in 
ahead of me at the general’s dinner and you will, but I like 
“you too well to draw at you. [ would not miss your company 
at table for all the world.’ And when he was killed,”’ Captain 30 
Daniel continued, lowering his voice, ‘some of them cried like 
women,—Tetherington among ’em,—and swore they would 
rather have lost their commissions at high play.” 

_ We sat talking until the summer’s dusk grew on apace, and 
one thing this devoted lover of my family told me, which 3s 
lightened my spirits of the greatest burden that had rested 
upon them since my calamity befell me. I had dwelt at length 


4 


414 RICHARD CARVEL 


upon my Lord Comyn, and upon the weight of his services 
to me, and touched upon the sum which [I stood in his debt. 
The captain interrupted me. 
“One day, before your mother died, she sent for me,’ Puede 
she, “and I came to Carvel Hall. You were too young to re- 
member. It was in September, and she was sitting on the 
seat under the oak she loved so well,—by Dr. Hilliard’s study. 
The lace shawl your father had given her was around her 
shoulders, and upon her face was the smile that gave me a 
ro pang to see. For it had something of heaven in it, Richard. 
She called me ‘Daniel’ then for the second time in _ her life. 
She bade me be seated beside her. ‘Daniel,’ she said, ‘when 
I am gone, and father is gone, it is you who will take wate of 
Richard. I sometimes ‘believe all may not be well then, and 
x5 that he will need you.’ I knew she was thinking of Grafton,” 
said the captain. “ ‘I have a little money of my own, Daniel, 
which I have saved lately with this in view. I give it mto 
your charge, and if trouble come to him, my old friend, you 
will use it as you see fit.’ 

20 “It was a bit under a thousand pounds, Richard. And 
when she died I put it out under Mr. Carroll’s direction at 
safe interest. So that you have enough to discharge your debt, 
and something saved against another emergency.” 

He fell silent, sunk into one of those reveries which the 

2s memory of my mother awoke in him. My own thoughts 
drifted across the sea. I was again at the top of the stairs in 
Arlington Street, and feeling the dearest presence in the 
world. The pale oval of Dorothy’s face rose before me and 
the troubled depths of her blue eyes. And I heard once more 

30 the tremble in her voice as she confessed, in words of which 
she took no heed, that love for which I had sought in vain. 

The summer dusk was gathering. Outside, under the cherry 
trees, | saw Banks holding forth to an admiring circle of ne- 
ero ’ostlers. And presently Mr. Claude came in to say that 

35 Shaw, the town carpenter, and Sol Mogg, the ancient sexton 
of St. Anne’s, and several more of my old acquaintances were 
without, and begged the honour of greeting me. | 


Ww 


CHAPTER? XLIV 


NOBLESSE OBLIGE 


I Lay that night in Captain Clapsaddle’s lodgings opposite, 
and slept soundly. Banks was on hand in the morning to 
assist at my toilet, and was greatly downcast when I refused 
him this privilege, for the first time. Captain Daniel was 
highly pleased with the honest fellow’s devotion in following 5 
me to America. Jo cheer him he began to question him as to 
my doings in London, and the first thing of which Banks must 
tell was “of the riding-contest in Hyde Park, which I had 
omitted. It is easy to imagine how this should have tickled 
the captain, who always had my horsemanship at heart; and ro 
when it came to Chartersea’s descent into the Serpentine; I 
thought he would go into apoplexy. For he had put on flesh 
with the years. 

_ The news of my return had Ped all over town, so that I] 
had a deal more handshaking to do when we went to thers 
Coffee House for breakfast. All the quality were in the 
country, of course, save only four gentlemen of the local 
‘Patriots’ committee, of which Captain Daniel was a member, 
‘and with whom he had an appointment at ten. It was Mr. 
Swain who arrived first of the four. 20 

This old friend of my childhood was a quiet man (I may 
not have specified), thin, and a little under stature, with a 
receding but thoughtful forehead. But he could express as 

‘much of joy and welcome in his face and manner as could 
Captain Daniel with his heartier ways. 25 
S “It does me good to see you, lad,” he said, pressing my 
hand. “J heard you were home, and sent off an express to 
‘Patty and the mother last night.” 

“And are they not here?” “T asked, with disappointment. 


415 





416 RICHARD CARVEL 


Mr. Swain smiled. 

“T have done a rash thing since I saw you, Richard, and 
bought a little plantation in Talbot, next to Singleton’s. It 
will be my ruin,’”’ he added. “A lawyer has no business with 

5 landed ambitions.”’ 

“A little plantation!” echoed the captain. “’QOd’s life, he 
has bought one of his Lordship’s own manors—as good an 
estate as there is in the province. ss 

“You overdo it, Daniel,” said he, reprovingly. 

ro At that moment there was a stir in the doorway, and in 
came Mr. Carroll, the barrister, and Mr. Bordley and Colonel 
Lloyd. These gentlemen gave me such a welcome as those 
warm-hearted planters and lawyers knew how to bestow. 

~ What, ho!”’ cried Mr. Lloyd, “I’m stamped and taxed if 

15 it isn’t young Richard Carvel himself. Well,” says he, “I 
know one who will sleep easier 0’ nights now,—one Clapsaddle. 
The gray hairs are forgot, Daniel. We had more to-do over 
your disappearance than when Mr. Worthington lost his 
musical nigger. Where a deuce have you been, sue 

20 “He shail tell us when we come back,” said Mr. Bordley. 
“He has brought our worthy association to a standstill once, 
and now we must proceed about our business. Will you come, 
Richard? I believe you have proved yourself a sufficiently 
good patriot, and in this very house.” 

2s We went down Church Street, I walking behind with Colo- 
nel Lloyd, and so proud to be in such company that I cared 
not a groat whether Grafton had my acres or not. I remem- 
bered that the committee all wore plain and sober clothes, and 
carried no swords. Mr. Swain alone had a wig. I had been 

30 away but seven months, and yet here was a perceptible change. 
In these dignified and determined gentlemen England had 
more to fear than in all the mobs at Mr. Wilkes’s back. ioe 
I wished that Charles Fox might have been with me. 

The sun beat down upon the street. The shopkeepers were 

3s gathered at their doors, but their chattering was hushed as 
the dreaded committee passed. More than one, apparently, 


had tasted of its discipline. Colonel Lloyd whispered to 7 


NOBLESSE OBLIGE 417 


to keep my countenance, that they were not after very large 
game that morning,—only Chipchase, the butcher. And 
presently we came upon the rascal putting up his shutters in 
‘much precipitation, although it was noon. He had shed his 
Bloodstained smock and breeches, and donned his Sunday 5 
Best, —a white thickset coat, country cloth jacket, blue broad- 
(cloth breeches, and white shirt. A grizzled cut wig sat some- 
what awry under his bearskin hat. When he perceived Mr. 
Carroll at his shoulder, he dropped his shutter against the 
wall, and began bowing frantically. 10 

“You keep good hours, Master Chipchase,” remarked 
Colonel Lloyd. 

“‘And lose good customers,”’ Mr. Swain added laconically. 

The butcher wriggled. 

“Your honours must know there be little selling when the rs 
gentry be out of town. And I was to take a holiday to-day, to 
see my daughter married.” 

“You will havea feast, my good man! iy Captain Danielasked. 

“To be sure, your honour, a feast.’ 

**And any little ewe-lambs?” says Mr. Bordley, very in- 20 
nocent. 

Master Chipchase turned the colour of his meat, and his wit 
failed him. 

“ “Fourthly,’ ” recited Mr. Carroll, with an exceeding sober 
face, “ ‘Fourthly, that we will not kill, or suffer to be killed, 25 
or sell, or dispose to any person whom we have reason to be- 
lieve intends to kill, any ewe-lamb that shall be weaned before 
the first day of May, in any year during the time afore- 
‘said.’ Have you ever heard anything of that sound, Mr. 
Chipchase?”’ 

Mr. Chipchase had. And if their honours pleased, he haa 
a defence to make, if their honours would but listen. And 
if their honours but knew, he was as good a patriot as any 
in the province, and sold his wool to Petes Psalter, and he 
wore the homespun in winter. Then Mr. Carroll drew a paper, 3s 
from his pocket and began to read: “ Mr. Thomas Hincks per- 
‘sonally known to me, deposeth and saith,— 







418 RICHARD CARVEL 


Master Chipchase’s knees gave from under him. 

““And your honours please,”’ he cried piteously, “ if! killed 
the lamb, but ’twas at Mr. Grafton Carvel’s order, who was in 
town with his Excellency.”’ (Here Mr. Swain and the captain 
s glanced significantly at me.) “And I lose Mr. Carvel’s cus- 
tom, there is twelve pounds odd gone a year, your honours, 
And I am a poor man, sirs.”’ 

“Who is it owns your shop, my man?” asks Mr. Bordley, 
very sternly. 

1o “Qh, I beg your honours will not have me put out—” 

The wailing of his voice had drawn a crowd of idlers and 
brother shopkeepers, who seemed vastly to enjoy the knave’s 
discomfiture. Amongst them I recognized my old acquaint- 
ance, Weld, now a rival butcher. He pushed forward boldly. 

ry ‘And your honours please,”’ said he, “‘he has sold lamb to 
half the Vory gentry in Annapolis. x 

‘SA lie!” cried Chipchase; “‘a lie, as God hears me!” 

Now Captain Clapsaddle was one who carried his loves and 
his hatreds to the grave, and he had never liked Weld since 

20 the day, six years gone by, he had sent me into the “Ship” 
tavern. And when Weld heard the captain’s voice he slunk 
away without a word. 

“Have a care, Master Weld,” says he, in a quiet tone that 
boded no good; “there is more evidence against you than you 

25 will like.” 

Master Chipchase, after being frightened almost out of his. 
senses, was pardoned this once by Captain Daniel’s influence. 
‘We went thence to Mr. Hildreth’s shop; he was suspected of 
having got tea out of a South River scow; then to Mr. Jack- 

30son’s; and so on. *Iwas after two when we got back to the: 
Coffee House, and sat down to as good a dinner as Mr. Claude 
could prepare. “And now,” cried Colonel Lloyd, “we shall 
have your adventures, Richard. I would that your uncle 
were here to listen to them,” he added dryly. : 
35, lL recited them very much as I had mp: ae night befores 
and [ warrant you, my dears, that they listened with mor 
zest and eagerness than did Mr. Walpole. But they were all 








NOBLESSE OBLIGE | 419 


shrewd men, and kept their suspicions, if they had any, to 
themselves. Captain Daniel would have me omit nothing,— 
my intimacy with Mr. Fox, the speech at Brooks’s Club, and 
the riding-match at Hyde Park. 

“What say you to that, gentlemen?” he cried. “‘Egad, I’ll 5 
be sworn he deserves credit,—an arrant young spark out of 
the Colonies, scarce turned nineteen, defeating a duke of the 
realm on horseback, and preaching the gospel of ‘no taxation’ 
at Brooks’s Club! Nor the favour of Sandwich or March 
could turn him from his principles.” 10 

Modesty, my dears, does not permit me to picture the en- 
thusiasm of these good gentlemen, who bore the responsibility 
of the colony of Maryland upon their shoulders. They made 
more of me than I[ deserved. In vain did I seek to explain 
that if a young man was but well-born, and had a full purse 15 
and a turn for high play, his principles might go hang, 
for all Mr. Fox cared. Colonel Lloyd commanded that the 
famous rose punch bowl be filled to the brim with Mr. 
Claude’s best summer brew, and they drank my health and 
my grandfather’s memory. It mattered little to them that I 20 
was poor. They vowed I should not lose by my choice. Mr. 
Bordley offered me a home, and added that I should have 
employment enough in the days tocome. Mr. Carroll pressed 
me likewise. And big-hearted Colonel Lloyd desired to send 
me to King’s College, as was my grandfather’s wish, where 25 
Will Fotheringay and my cousin Philip had been for a term. 

I might make a barrister of myself. Mr. Swain alone was 
silent and thoughtful, but I did not for an instant doubt that 
he would have done as much for me. 

Before we broke up for the evening the gentlemen plied me 30 
with questions concerning the state of affairs in England, and 
the temper of his Majesty and Parliament. I say without 
vanity that I was able to enlighten them not a little, for I 
had learned a deeper lesson from the set into which I had 
fallen in London than if I had become the confidant of Rock- 35 
megham himself. America was a long way from England in 
those days. I regretted that I had not arrived in London in 





420 . RICHARD CARVEL 


time to witness Lord Chatham’s dramatic return to politics 
in January, when he had completed the work of Junius, and 
broken up the Grafton ministry. But I told them of the de- 
bate I had heard in St. Stephen’s, and made them laugh 

s over Mr. Fox’s rescue of the King’s friends, and the hustling 
of Mr. Burke from the Lords. 

They were very curious, too, about Mr. Manners; and I was 
put to much ingenuity to answer their queries and not re- 
veal my own connection with him. They wished to know if it 

ro were true that some nobleman had flung a bottle at his 
head in a rage because Dorothy would not marry him, as 
Dr. Courtenay’s letter had stated. I replied that it was so. 
I did not add that it was the same nobleman who had been 
pitched into the Serpentine. Nor did I mention the fight 
zs at Vauxhall. I made no doubt these things would come to 
their ears, but I did not choose to be the one to tell them. Mr. 
Swain remained after the other gentlemen, and asked me if 
I would come with him to Gloucester Street; that he had 
something to say to me. We went the long way thither, and 
2ol was very grateful to him for avoiding Marlboro’ Street, 
which must needs bring me painful recollections. He said 
little on the way. 

I almost expected to see Patty come tripping down from the 

vine-covered porch with her needlework in her hand, and the 
2s house seemed strangely empty without her. Mr. Swain had 
his negro, Romney, place chairs for us under the apple tree, 
and bring out pipes and sangaree. The air was still, and 
heavy with the flowers’ scent, and the sun was dipping be 
hind the low eaves of the house. It was so natural to be there 
30 that I scarce realized all that had happened since last I saw the 
back gate in the picket fence. Alas! little Patty would nevei 
more be smuggled through it and over the wall to Marlboro 
Street. Mr. Swain recalled my thoughts. 
‘Captain Clapsaddle has asked me to look into this matte! 
35 of the will, Richard,” he began abruptly. “Altho’ we though 
never to see you again, we have hoped against hope. I fe 
you have little chance for your property, my lad.” | 





NOBLESSE OBLIGE 421 


I replied that Captain Daniel had so led me to believe, and 
thanked him for his kindness and his trouble. 

“Twas no trouble,”’ he replied quickly. “Indeed, I wish it 
might have been. I shall always think of your grandfather 
with reverence and with sorrow. He was a noble man, 5 
and was a friend to me, in spite of my politics, when other 

entlemen of position would not invite me to their houses. 

t would be the greatest happiness of my life if I could 
restore his property to you, where he would have had it 
gO, and deprive that villain, your uncle, of the fruits of his 10 
crime. 

“Then there is nothing to be got by contesting the will?” I 
asked. 

He shook his head soberly. 

“T fear not at present,” said he, “nor can I with honesty 15 
hold out any hope to you, Richard. Your uncle, by reason of 
his wealth, is a man of undue influence with the powers of 
the colony. Even if he were not so, I doubt greatly whether 
we should be the gainers. The will is undoubtedly genuine. 
Mr. Carvel thought you dead, and we cannot prove undue in- 20 
fluence by Grafton unless we also prove that it was he who 
caused your abduction. Do you think you can prove that?” 

“There is one witness,” I exclaimed, “who overheard my 
uncle and Mr. Allen talking of South River and Griggs, the 
master of the slaver, in the stables at Carvel Hall.”’ 25 

*“And who is that?”? demanded Mr. Swain, with more ex- 
citement than I| believed him capable of. 

“Old Harvey.” 

“Your grandfather’s coachman? Alas, he died the day 
lafter Mr. Carvel, and was buried the same afternoon. Have 30 
you spoken of this?” 

**Not to a soul,” said I. 

“Then I would not. You will have to be very careful and 
say nothing, Richard. Let me hear what other reasons you 
have for believing that your uncle tried to do away with 35 
you. 

_ I told him, lucidly as possible, everything I have related in 


i 


422 RICHARD CARVEL 






























these pages, and the admission of Griggs. He listened in- 
tently, shaking his head now and then, but not a word out of 
him. 

“No,” he said at length, “‘nothing is there which will be ad- 

s mitted, but enough to damn him if you yourself might be a 
witness. I will give you the law, briefly: descendible estates 
among us are of two kinds, estates in fee simple and estates 
in fee tail. Had your grandfather died without a will, his 
estate, which we suppose to be in fee simple; would have de- 

ro scended to you as the son of his eldest son, according to the 
fourth of the canons of descent in Blackstone. But with us 
fee simple estates are devisable, and Mr. Carvel was wholly 
within his right in cutting off the line of his eldest son. Do 
you follow me?” 

ts. I nodded. 

“There is one chance,” he continued, “and that is a very 
slim one. I said that Mr. Carvel’s estate was supposed to be 
in fee simple. Estates tail are not devisable. Our system of 
registration is far from infallible, and sometimes an old fam- 

20 ily settlement turns up to prove that a property which has 
been willed out of the direct line, as in fee simple, is in 
reality entailed. Is there a possibility of any such document?” 

I replied that I did not know. My grandfather had never 
brought up the subject. 

2s ‘““We must bend our efforts in that direction,” said the bard 

_ tister. “I shall have my clerks make a systematic search.” 

He ceased talking, and sat sipping his sangaree in the ab= 
stracted manner common to him. I took the opportunity to 
ask about his family, thinking about what Dolly had said of. 

30 Patty’sillness. 4 

“The mother is as well as can be expected, Richard, and 
Patty very rosy with the country air. Your disappearance 
was a great shock to them both.” 

“ And Tom?” | 

3s He went behind his reserve. “Tom is a d—d rake,” h 
exclaimed, with some vehemence. “I have given him ove 
He has taken up with that macaroni Cousens who wins hi 


a, 


. NOBLESSE OBLIGE 423 





oney,—or rather my money,—and your cousin Philip, when 
he is home from King’s College. How Tom can be son of 
mine is beyond me, in faith. I see him about once in two 
months, when he comes here with a bill for his satins and his 
tuffies, and a long face of repentance, and a lot of gaming ; 
debts to involve my honour. And that reminds me, Rich- 
ard,” said he, looking straight at me with his clear, dark 
eyes: “have you made any plans for your future?”’ 
_ I ventured to ask his advice as to entering the law. 
_ “As the only profession open to a gentleman,” he replied, ro 
smiling a little. “No, you were no more cut out for an attor- 
hey, or a barrister, or a judge, than was I for a macaroni doc- 
tor. The time is not far away, my lad,” he went on, seeing 
my shame and confusion, “when an American may amass 
money in any way he chooses, and still be a gentleman,—1; 
Behind a counter, if he will.” 
4 * do not fear work, Mr. Swain,” I remarked, with some 
e. 
Be That is what I have been thinking,” he said shortly. 
"And | am not a man to make up my mind while you count 2. 
three, Richard. ‘I have the place in Talbot, and no one to 
look after it. And—and in short I think you are the man.” 
| He paused to watch the effect of this upon me. But I was 
30 taken aback by this new act of kindness that I could not 
Say a word. 25 
_ “Tom is fast going to the devil, as I told you,” he con- 
inued. “He cannot be trusted. If I die, that estate shall be 
Patty’s, and he may never squander it. Captain Daniel tells 
me, and Mr. Bordley also, that you managed at Carvel Hall 
a sense and ability. I know you are very young, but I 30 
think I may rely upon you.” 
_ Again he hesitated, eying me fixedly. 
‘ “Ah,” said he, with his quiet smile, “it is the old noblesse 
\blige. How many careers has it ruined since the world 


32 
gan! 35 





CHAPTER XLV 


THE HOUSE OF MEMORIES 


I was greatly touched, and made Mr. Swain many awk- 
ward acknowledgments, which he mercifully cut short. I 
asked him for a while to think over his offer. This seemed to 
please rather than displease him. And my first impulse on 

3 reaching the inn was to ask the captain’s advice. | thought 
better of it, however, and at length resolved to thrash out the 
matter for myself. 

The next morning, as I sat reflecting, an overwhelming de- 
sire seized me to go to Marlboro’ Street. Hitherto | could not 

zohave borne the sight of the old place. I gulped down my 
emotion as the gate creaked behind me, and made my way 
slowly to the white seat under the big chestnut behind the 
house, where my grandfather had been wont to sit reading his 
prints, in the warm weather. The flowers’and the hedges 
15 had grown to a certain wildness; and the smell of the Ameri 
can roses carried me back—as odours will—to long-forgotten 
and trivial scenes. Here I had been caned many a day fol 
Mr. Daaken’s reports, and for earlier offences. And I recalled 
my mother as she once ran out at the sound of my cries to beg 
20me off. So vivid was that picture that I could hear Mr. Car, 
vel say: “He is yours, madam, not mine. Take him!” | 

I started up. The house was still, the sun blistering the 
green paint of the shutters. My eye was caught by those or 
the room that had been hers, and which, by my grandfather's 

2s decree, had lain closed since she left it. The image of it grey 
in my mind: the mahogany bed with its poppy counterpan¢ 
and creamy curtains, and the steps at the side by which she 
was wont to enter it; and the prie-dieu, whence her soul hae 
been lifted up to God. And the dresser with her china anc 


424 





THE HOUSE OF MEMORIES 425 


silver upon it, covered by years of dust. For [ had once stolen 
the key from Willis’s bunch, crept in, and crept out again, 
awed. That chamber would be profaned, now, and those dear 
xrnaments, which were mine, violated. The imagination 
choked me. : 

I would have them. I must. Nothing easier than to pry 
ypen a door or window in the north wing, by the ball-room. 
When I saw Grafton I would tell him. Nay, I would write 
him that day. I was even casting about me for an implement, 
when I heard a step on the gravel beside me. 10 

I swung around, and came face to face with my uncle. 

He must have perceived me. And after the first shock of 
my surprise had passed, I remarked a bearing on him that I 
had not seen before. He was master of the situation at last, 
—so it read. The realization gave him an easier speech than rs 
ever. 

“T thought I might find you here, Richard,” he said, “since 
you were not at the Coffee House.” 

He did not offer me his hand. I could only stare at him, 
for I had expected anything but this. 2 
“JT came from Carvel Hall to get you,’’ he proceeded 
smoothly enough. “I heard but yesterday of your return, and 
some of your miraculous adventures. Your recklessness has 
caused us many a trying day, Richard, and I believed killed 
your grandfather. You have paid dearly, and have made us 2s 
yay dearly, for your mad frolic of fighting cutthroats on the 
Behroad.” 

The wonder was that I did not kill him on the spot. I 
cannot think what possessed the man,—he must have known 
me better. 30 

“‘My recklessness!”’ I shouted, fairly hoarse with anger. I 
paid no heed to Mr. Swains’s warning. ‘You d—d scoun- 
drel!”? I cried, ‘it was you killed him, and you know it. 
When you had put me out of the way and he was in your 
power, you tortured him to death. You forced him to die 35 
alone with your sneering face, while your shrew of a wife 
rounted cards downstairs. Grafton Carvel, God knows you 


‘ 


1@) 


426 RICHARD CARVEL 


better than I, who know you too well. ies he will punish 
you as sure as the crack of doom.” } 

He heard me through, giving back as I came forward, hil 
face blanching only a little, and wearing all the time that 

5 yellow smile which so fitted it. | 

“You have finished?” says he. 

“Ay, I have finished. And now you may order me from 
this ground you have robbed me of. But there are some 
things in that house you shall not steal, for they are mine 

zo despite you.” 

“Name them, Richard,” he said, very scerhmabuls 

“The articles in my mother’ Monies 3b which were hers.” 

*“You shall have them this day,”’ he answered. 

It was his way never to lose his temper, tho’ he were called 

15 by the vilest name in the language. He must always assume 
this pious grief which made me long to throttle him. He had 
the best of me, even now, as he took the great key from his 
pocket. ; 

“Will you look at them before you go?” he asked. 

20 At first I was for refusing. Then 1 nodded. He led the 
way silently around by the front; and after he had turned 
the lock he stepped aside with a bow to let me pass in ahead 
of him. Once more I was in the familiar hall with the stairs 
dividing at the back. It was cool after the heat, and musty, 

2sand a touch of death hung in the prisoned air. We paused 
for a moment on the landing, beside the high, triple-arched 
window which the branches tapped on windy winter days, 
while Grafton took down the bunch of keys from beside the 
clock. I thought of my dear grandfather winding it every 

go Sunday, and his ruddy face and large figure as he stood glane 
ing sidewise down at me. Then the sound of Grafton’s feet 
upon the bare steps recalled the present. 

We passed Mr. Carvel’s room and went down the litele 
corridor over the ball-room, until we came to the full-storied 

3s wing. My uncle flung open the window and shutters opposite 
and gave me the key. A delicacy not foreign to him held him 
elere he was. Time had sealed the door, and when at last & 





: 


4 
Li 


THE HOUSE OF MEMORIES 427 


fave before my strength, a shower of dust quivered in the 
tay of sunlight from the window. I entered reverently. I 
took only the silver bound prayer-book, cast a lingering look at 
the old familiar objects dimly defined, and came out and 
locked the door again. I said very quietly that | would s 
send for the things that afternoon, for my anger was hushed 
by what I had seen. 

We halted together on the uncovered porch in front of the 
house, that had a seat set on each side of it. Marlboro’ 
Street was still, the wide trees which flanked it spreading 10 
their shade over walk and roadway. Not a soul was abroad 
in the midday heat, and the windows of the long house op- 
posite were sightless. 

» “Richard,” said my uncle, staring ahead of him, “‘I came 
to offer you a home, and you insult me brutally, as yours 
have done unreproved all your life. And yet no one shall 
‘say of me that I shirk my duty. But first [ must ask you 
af there is aught else you desire of me.”’ 

“The black boy, Hugo, is mine,’ I said. I had no great 
love for Hugo, save for association’s sake, and I had one too 20 
many servants as it was; but to rescue one slave from Graf- 
‘ton’s clutches was charity. 

» “You shall have him,” he replied, “and your chaise, and 
your wardrobe, and your horses, and whatever else I have 
‘that belongs to you. As I was saying, I will not shirk my 25 
duty. The memory of my dear father, and of what he would 
have wished, will not permit me to let you go a-begging. You 
$hall be provided for out of the estate, despite what you have 
said and done.” 

|. This was surely the quintessence of a rogue’s imagination. 30 
Tnstinctively I shrank from him. With a show of piety that 
turned me sick he continued :— 

) “Let God witness that I carry out my father’s will!” 

' “Stop there, Grafton Carvel!” I cried; “you shall not take 
‘His name in vain. Under this guise of holiness you and your 35 
Yaccomplice have done the devil’s own work, and the devil will 
‘reward you.” 









a 
428 RICHARD CARVEL + 


This reference to Mr. Allen, I believe, frightened rae For 
a second only did he show it. 

“My—my accomplice, sir!”? he stammered. And then 
righting himself: “‘ You will have to explain this, by Heaven.” 

5 “In ample time your plot shall be laid bare, and you and 
his Reverence shall hang, or lie in chains.”’ 

“You threaten, Mr. Carvel?” he shouted, nearly stepping 
off the porch in his excitement. 

“Nay, I predict,”’ I replied calmly. And I went down the 

ro steps and out of the gate, he looking after me. Before I had 
turned the corner of Freshwater Lane, he was in the seat, and 
fanning himself with his hat. 

I went straight to Mr. Swain’s chambers in the Circle, where 
I found the good barrister and Captain Daniel in their shirt- 

1s sleeves, seated between the windows in the back room. Mr. 
Swain was grave enough when he heard of my talk with 
Grafton, but the captain swore I was my father’s son (for the 
fiftieth time since I had come back), and that a man could no 
more help flying at Grafton’s face than Knipe could resist his 
20 legs; or Cynthia his back, if he went into her stall. I had 
scarce finished my recital, when Mr. Renwick, the barrister’s 
clerk, announced Mr. rucren which caused Mr. Swain to let 
out aw histle of surprise. 
““So the wind blows from that quarter, Daniel,” said he. 
25 ‘I thought so.” 

Mr. Tucker proved to be the pettifogger into whose hands 
Grafton had put his affairs, taking them from Mr. Dulany at 
Mr. Carvel’s death. The man was all in a sweat, and had 
hardly got in the door before he began to talk. He had ne 

30 less astonishing a proposition to make than this, which he 
enunciated with much mouthing of the honour and sense of 
duty of Mr. Grafton Carvel. His client offered Mr. Richard 
Carvel the estate lying in Kent County, embracing thirty- 
three hundred acres more or less of arable land and wood- 

3s land, with a fine new house, together with the indented sery- 
ants and negroes and other chattels thereon. Mr. Richard 
Carvel would observe that in making this generous offe1 





THE HOUSE OF MEMORIES 429 


for the welfare of his nephew, Mr. Tucker’s client was far 
beyond the letter of his obligations; wherefore Mr. Grafton 
Carvel made it contingent upon the acceptance of the estate 
that his nephew should sign a paper renouncing forever any 
claims upon the properties of the late Mr. Lionel Carvel. 5 
This condition was so deftly rolled up in law-Latin that | 
did not understand a word of it until Mr. Swain stated it 
very briefly in English. His quiet laugh prodigiously dis- 
concerted the pettifogger, who had before been sufficiently 
ill at ease in the presence of the great lawyer. Mr. Tucker 10 
blew his nose loudly to hide his confusion. 

» “And what say you, Richard?” said Mr. Swain, without a 
shade of accent in his voice. 

_ I bowed my head. I knew that the honest barrister had 
tread my heart when he spoke of noblesse oblige. ‘Vhat sense- rs 
less pride of caste, so deep-rooted in those born in our prov- 
ince, had made itself felt. ‘To be a factor (so I thought, for I 
Was young) was to renounce my birth. Until that moment of 
travail the doctrine of equality had seemed very pretty to me. 
Your fine gentleman may talk as nobly as he pleases over his 20 
Madeira, and yet would patronize Monsieur Rousseau if he 
met him; and he takes never a thought of those who knuckle 
to him every day, and clean his boots and collect his rents. 
But when he is tried in the fire, and told suddenly to collect 
some one else’s rents and curse another’s negroes, he is faint- 25 
hearted for the experiment. So it was with me when I had 
to meet the issue. I might take Grafton’s offer, and the 
chance to marry Dorothy was come again. For by industry 
the owner of the Kent lands would become rich. 

| The room was hot, and still save for the buzzing of the flies. 30 
When I looked up I discovered the eyes of all three upon me. 

§ “You may tell your client, Mr. Tucker, that I refuse his 
offer,’ ’ [ said. 

_ He got to his feet, and with the customary declaration of 
humble servitude fod himself out. 35 
_ The door was scarce closed on him when the captain had me 


by the hands. 





vq 


~ 


caw 


430 RICHARD CARVEL 


% 
“What said I, Henry?” he cried. “Did I not know the 
lad?” : 
Mr. Swain did not stir from his seat. He was still gazing 
at me with a curious expression. And then I saw the world 
sin truer colour. This good Samaritan was not only taking me 
into his home, but would fight for my rights with the stron 
brain that had lifted him out of poverty and obscurity. 
stood, humbled before him. . 
“T would accept your kindness, Mr. Swain,”’ I said, vainly 
ro trying to steady my voice, “but I have the faithful fellow, 
Banks, who followed me here from England, dependent on 
me, and Hugo, whom’ I rescued from my uncle. I will make 
cover the black to you and you will have him.” | 
He rose, brushed his eyes with his shirt, and took me by 
rs the arm. “ You and the captain dine with me to-day,” says 
he. “And as for Banks, I think that can be arranged. Now 
I have an estate, I shall need a trained butler, egad. I have 
some affairs to keep mein town to-day, Richard. But we'll be 
off for Gordon’s Pride in the morning, and | know of one 
20 little girl will be glad to see us.” “ae 
We dined out under the apple tree in Gloucester Street. 
And the captain argued, in his hopeful way, that Tucker’s 
visit betrayed a weak point in Grafton’s position. But the 
barrister shook his head and said that Grafton was too shrewd 
25 a rogue to tender me an estate if he feared me. It was Mr. 
Swain’s opinion that the motive of my uncle was to put him- 
self in a good light; and perhaps, he added, there was a little 
revenge mixed therein, as the Kent estate was the one Mr. 
Carvel had given him when he cast him off. 


30 A southerly wind was sending great rolls of fog before it 
as Mr. Swain and I, with Banks, crossed over to Kent Island 
on the ferry the next morning. We traversed the island, and 
were landed by the other ferry on the soil of my native county, 
Queen Anne’s. In due time we cantered past Master Ding- 

35 ley’s tavern, the sight of which gave me a sharp pang, for it 
is there that the by-road turns over the bridge to Carvel Hall 


5 THE HOUSE OF MEMORIES 431 


and Wilmot House; and force of habit drew my reins to the 
right across the horse’s neck, so that I swerved into it. The 
barrister had no word of comment when I overtook him 
again. 

“Twas about two o’clock when we came to the gate Mr. s 
Swain had erected at the entrance to his place; the land was 
a little rolling, and partly wooded, like that on the Wye. But 
the fields were prodigiously unkempt. He drew up, and 
glanced at me. 

“You will see there is much to be done with such fellows ro 
as these,” said he. “The lessees from his Lordship were sports- 
men rather than husbandmen, and had an antipathy to a con- 
stable or a sheriff like a rat to a boar cat. That is the curse 
of some of your Eastern Shore gentlemen, especially in Dor- 
chester,” he added; “‘they get to be fishmongers.”’ 15 

Presently. we came in sight of the house, long and low, 
like the one in Gloucester Street, with a new and unpainted 
wing just completed. That day the mist softened its outline 
and blurred the trees which clustered about it. Even as we 
swung into the circle of the drive a rounded and youthful 20 
figure appeared in the doorway, gave a little cry, and stood 
immovable. It was Patty, in a striped dimity gown with the 
sleeves rolled up, and her face fairly shone with joy as I 
leaped from my horse and took her hands. 

“So you like my surprise, girl?’’ said her father, as he 25 
kissed her blushing face. 

For answer she tore herself away, and ran through the hall 
to the broad porch in front. 

“Our barrister is come, mother,” we heard her exclaiming, 
“and whom do you think he has brought?”’ 30 
“Ts it-Richard?” asked the gentler voice, more hastily than 

usual. 

_ I stepped out on the porch, where the invalid sat in her 
armchair. She was smiling with joy, too, and she held out 
her wasted hands and drew me toward her, kissing me on both 35 
cheeks. 

a thank God for His goodness,” said she. 


432 RICHARD CARVEL 


“And the boy has come to stay, mother,”’ said her husband, 
as he stooped over her. 

“To stay!” cried Patty. 

“‘Gordon’s Pride is henceforth his home,” replied the barris- 

ster. ‘‘And now I can return in peace to my musty law, and 
know that my plantation will be well looked after.” 

Patty gasped. 

“Oh, I am so glad!” said she, “I could almost rejoice that 
his uncle cheated him out of his property. He is to be factor 

’ = 9? 
10 of Gordon’s Pride? 

“‘He is to be master of Gordon’s Pride, my dear,”’ says her 
father, smiling and tilting her chin; “we shall have no such 
persons as factors here.” 

At that the tears forced themselves into my own eyes. I 

rs; turned away, and then I perceived for the first time the tall 
form of my old friend, Percy Singleton. 

“May I, too, bid you welcome, Richard,” said he, in his 
manly way, “and rejoice that I have got such a neighbour?” 

“Thank you, Percy,” I answered. I was not in a state to 

20 say much more. 

“ And now,” exclaims Patty, “what a dinner we shali have 
in the prodigal’s honour! I shall make you all some of the 
Naples biscuit Mrs. Brice told me of.”’ 

She flew into the house, and presently we heard her clear 

25 voice singing in the kitchen. 


¢ 


CHAPTER XLVI 


GORDON’S PRIDE 


Tue years of a man’s life that count the most are often 
those which may be passed quickest in the story of it. And 
so | may hurry over the first years I spent as Mr. Swain’s 
factor at Gordon’s Pride. The task that came to my hand was 
heaven-sent. 5 

That manor house, I am sure, was the tidiest in all Mary- 
land, thanks to Patty’s New England blood. She was astir 
with the birds of a morning, and near the last to retire at 
night, and happy as the days were long. She was ever up to 
her elbows in some dish, and her butter and her biscuits were 10 
the best in the province. Little she cared to work samplers, 
or peacocks in pretty wools, tho’ in some way she found the 
time to learn the spinet. As the troubles with the mother 
country thickened, she took to a foot-wheel, and often in the 
crisp autumn evenings I would hear the bumping of it as I 15 
walked to the house, and turn the knob to come upon her 
spinning by the twilight. She would have no English-made 
linen in that household. ‘If mine scratch your back, Rich- 
ard,”’ she would say, ‘“‘you must grin and bear, and console 
yourself with your virtue.”’ It was I saw to the flax, and 20 
learned from Ivie Rawlinson (who had come to us from Car- 
vel Hall) the best manner to ripple and break and swingle it. 
And Mr. Swain, in imitation of the high example set by Mr. 
Bordley, had buildings put up for wheels and the looms, and 
in due time kept his own sheep. Me 
_ If man or woman, white or black, fell sick on the place, it 
was Patty herself who tended them. She knew the virtue of 
every herb in the big chest in the storeroom. And at table she 
presided over her father’s guests with a womanliness that won 


433 


SO as 


434 RICHARD CARVEL 


her more admiration than mine. Now that the barrister was 
become a man of weight, the house was as crowded as ever 
was Carvel Hall. Carrolls and Pacas and Dulanys and John- 
sons, and Lloyds and Bordleys and Brices and Scotts and Jen- 
snings and Ridouts, and Colonel Sharpe, who remained in the 
province, and many more families of prominence which | 
have not space to mention, all came to Gordon’s Pride. Some 
of these, as their names proclaim, were of the King’s side; 
but the bulk of Mr. Swain’s company were stanch patriots, 
roand toasted Miss Patty instead of his Majesty. By this I 
do not mean that they lacked loyalty, for it is a matter of 
note that our colony loved King George. 3 
I must not omit from the list above the name of my good 
friend, Captain Clapsaddle. 
1s Nor was there lack of younger company. Betty Tayloe, 
who plied me with questions concerning Dorothy and Lon- 
don, but especially about the dashing and handsome Lord 
Comyn; and the Dulany girls, and I know not how many 
others. Will Fotheringay, when he was home from college, 
2oand Archie Brice, and Francis Willard (whose father was 
now in the Assembly), and half a dozen more to court Patty, 
who would not so much as look at them. And when I twitted 
her with this she would redden and reply: “I was created 
for a housewife, sir, and not to make eyes from behind a 
2sfan.” Indeed, she was at her prettiest and best in the 
dimity frock, with the sleeves rolled up. 
*Twas a very merry place, the manor of Gordon’s Pride. 
A generous bowl of punch always stood in the cool hall, 
through which the south winds swept from off the water, and 
30 fruit and sangaree and lemonade were on the table there. The 
manor had no‘ball-room, but the negro fiddlers played in the 
big parlour. And the young folks danced till supper time. 
In three months Patty’s suppers grew famous in a colony 
where there was no lack of good cooks. 
3s Lhe sweet-natured invalid enjoyed these festivities in her 
quiet way, and often pressed me to partake. So did Patty 
beg me, and Mr. Swain. Perhaps a false sense of pride 


GORDON’S PRIDE 435 


restrained me, but my duties held me all day in the field, and 
often into the night when there was curing to be done, or 
some other matters of necessity. And for the rest, I thought 
I detected a change in the tone of Mr. Fotheringay, and 


some others, tho’ it may have been due to sensibility on my 5 


part. I would put up with no patronage. 

There was no change of tone, at least, with the elder gen- 
tlemen. They plainly showed me an added respect. And so 
I fell into the habit, after my work was over, of joining 
them in their suppers rather than the sons and daughters. 
There I was made right welcome. The serious conversation 
spiced with the wit of trained barristers and men of affairs 
better suited my changed condition of life. The times were 
sober, and for those who could see, a black cloud was on each 
horizon. *ITwas only a matter of months when the thunder- 
clap was to come—indeed, enough was going on within our 
own province to forebode a revolution. The Assembly to 
which many of these gentlemen belonged was in a righteous 
state of opposition to the Proprietary. and the Council con- 
cerning the emoluments of colonial officers and of clergy- 
men. Honest Governor Eden had the misfortune to see the 
justice of our side, and was driven into a seventh state by his 
attempts to square his conscience. Bitter controversies were 
waging in the Gazette, and names were called and duels 
fought weekly. For our cause “The First Citizen” led the 
van, and the able arguments and moderate language of his 
letters soon identified him as Mr. Charles Carroll of Car- 
rollton, one of the greatest men Maryland has ever known. 
But even at Mr. Swain’s, amongst his few intimate friends, 
‘Mr. Carroll could never be got to admit his nom de guerre 
until long after Aniilon had been beaten. 

I write it with pride, that at these suppers I was some- 
times asked to speak; and, having been but lately to Eng- 
land, to give my opinion upon the : state of affairs there. Mr. 
Parroll honoured ' me upon two occasions with his confidence, 
and I was made clerk to a little club they had, and aah the 
minutes in my own hand. 


a 


al 


5 


Gs 
1) 


35 


436 RICHARD CARVEL 


I went about in homespun, which, if good enough for Mr. 
Bordley, was good enough for me. I rode with him over the 
estate. This gentleman was the most accomplished and 
scientific farmer we had in the province. Having inherited 
s his plantation on Wye Island, near Carvel Hall, he resigned 
his duties as judge, and a lucrative practice, to turn all 
his energies to the cultivation of the soil. His wheat 
was as eagerly sought after as was Colonel Washington’s 
tobacco. 
ro It was to Mr. Bordley’s counsel that the greater part of my 
success was due. He taught me the folly of ploughing with a 
fluke,—a custom to which the Eastern Shore was wedded,— 
pointing out that a double surface was thus exposed to the 
sun’s rays; and explained at length why there was more 
rs profit in small grain in that district than heavy tobacco. 
He gave me Dr. Eliot’s Essays on Field Husbandry, and 
Mill’s Husby, which I read from cover to cover. And I 
went from time to time to visit him at Wye Island, when 
he would canter with me over that magnificent plantation, 
»o and show me with pride the finished outcome of his experi- 
ments. . 
Mr. Swain’s affairs kept him in town the greater part 
of the twelve months, and Mrs. Swain and Patty moved to 
Annapolis in the autumn. But for three years I was at Gor- 
2s don’s Pride winter and summer alike. At the end of that time 
I was fortunate enough to show my employer such substan- 
tial results as to earn his commendation—ay, and his confi- 
dence, which was the highest token of that man’s esteem. 
The moneys of the estate he left entirely at my order. And 
30 in the spring of ’73, when the opportunity was suddenly of- 
fered to buy a thousand acres of excellent wheat land _ad- 
joining, I made the purchase for him while he was at Will- 
jamsburg, and upon my own responsibility. 
This connected the plantation on the east with Singleton’s. 
3s It had been my secret hope that the two estates might one 
day be joined in marriage. For of all those who came 
a-courting Patty, Perey was by far the best. He was but a 





GORDON’S PRIDE 437 


diffident suitor; he would sit with me on the lawn evening 
after evening, when company was there, while Fotheringay 
and Francis Willard made their compliments within,—silly 
flatteries, at which Patty laughed. 

Percy kept his hounds, and many a run we had together in 5 
the sparkling days that followed the busy summer, when the 
crops were safe in the bottoms; or a quiet pipe and bottle in 
his bachelor’s hall, after a soaking on the duck points. 

And this brings me to a subject on which I am loth to write. 
Where Mr. Singleton was concerned, Patty, the kindest of ro 
creatures, was cruelty itself. Once, when I had the effron- 
tery to venture a word in his behalf, I had been silenced 
so effectively as to make my ears tingle. A thousand little 
signs led me to a conclusion which pained me more than I 
can express. Heaven is my witness that no baser feeling 15 
leads me to hint of it here. Every day while the garden 
lasted flowers were in my room, and it was Banks who told 
me that she would allow no other hands than her own to 
place them by my bed. He got a round rating from me 
for violating the pledge of secrecy he had given her. It was 20 
Patty who made my shirts, and on Christmas knitted me 
something of comfort; who stood on the horse-block in the 
early morning waving after me as I rode away, and at my 
coming her eyes would kindle with a light not to be mis- 
taken. 25 

None of these things were lost upon Percy Singleton, and I 
often wondered why he did not hate me. He was of the kind 
that never shows a hurt. Force of habit still sent him to 
Gordon’s Pride, but for days he would have nothing to say 
‘to the mistress of it, or she to him. 30 


ae a 


CHAPTER XLVII 


VISITORS 


Ir was not often that Mr. Thomas Swain honoured Gor- 
don’s Pride with his presence. He vowed that the sober Whig 
company his father brought there gave him the vapours. He 
snapped his fingers at the articles of the Patriots’ Associa-’ 

; tion, and still had his cocked hats and his Brussels lace and 
his spyglass, and his top boots when he rode abroad, like any 
other Lory buck. His intimates were all of the King’s side, 
—of the worst of the King’s side, I should say, for 1 would 
not be thought to cast any slur on the great number of con- 

.o scientious men of that party. But, being the son of one of 
the main props of the Whigs, Mr. ‘Tom went unpunished for 
his father’s sake. He was not uncondemned. 

Up to 1774, the times that Mr. Swain mentioned his son 
to me might be counted on the fingers of one hand, It took 

1s not a great deal of shrewdness to guess that he had paid out 
many a pretty sum to keep Tom’s honour bright: as bright, 
at least, as such doubtful metal would polish. Tho’ the bar- 
rister sought my ear in many matters, | never heard a whim- 
per out of him on this score. 

so Master Tom had no ambition beyond that of being a maca- 
roni; his easy-going nature led him to avoid alike trouble and 
responsibility. Hence he did not bother his head concerning 
my position. He appeared well content that I should make 
money out of the plantation for him to spend. His visits to 

>; Gordon’s Pride were generally in the late autumn, and he 
brought his own company with him. I recall vividly his third 
or fourth appearance, in October of ’73. Well I may! The 
family was preparing to go to town, and this year I was to 
follow them, and take from Mr. Swain’s shoulders some of 


438 





VISITORS 439 


his private business, for he had been ailing a little of late 
from overwork. 

_ The day of which I have spoken a storm had set in, the 
rain falling in sheets. I had been in the saddle since break 
fast, seeing to an hundred repairs that had to be mades 
‘before the cold weather. *Iwas near the middle of the after- 
noon when I pulled up before the weaving house. ‘The looms 
were still, and Patty met me at the door with a grave look, 
which I knew portended something. But her first words were 
of my comfort. 10 

“Richard, will you ever learn sense? You have been wet 
all day long, and have missed your dinner. Go at once and 
change your clothes, sir!” she commanded severely. 

“T have first to look at the warehouse, where the roof is 
leaking,” I expostulated. I 

“You shall do no such a thing,” replied she, “but dry your- 
self and march into the dining room. We have had the ducks 
‘you shot yesterday, and some of your experimental hominy; 
but they are all gone.” , 

I knew well she had laid aside for me some dainty; as was 20 
her habit. I dismounted. She gave me a quick, troubled 
glance, and said in a low voice:— 

“Tom is come. And oh, I dare not tell you whom he has 

with him now!” 

“Courtenay?” I asked. 25 

“Yes, of course. I hate the sight of the man. But your 
‘cousin, Philip Carvel, is here, Richard. Father will be very 

anery. And they are making a drinking-tavern of the house.” 

I gave Firefly a slap that sent her trotting stableward, and 

walked rapidly to the house. J found the three of them drink- 30 
“ing in the hall, the punch spilled over the table, and staining 
the cards. 

_ “Gad’s life!” cries Tom, “here comes Puritan Richard, in 
his broad rim. How goes the crop, Richard? Twill have to 
"go well, egad, for I lost an hundred at the South River Club 35 
last week!”’ , 
Next him sat Philip, whom I had not seen since before I 


5 





440 RICHARD CARVEL 


was carried off. He was lately come home from King’s Col- 
lege and very mysteriously, his father giving out that his 
health was not all it should be. He had not gained. Grafton’s 
height, but he was broader, and his face had something in 

sit of his father. He had his mother’s underlip and com- 
plexion. Grafton was sallow; Philip was a peculiar pink,— 
not the ruddy pink of heartier natures, like my grandfather’s, 
nor yet had he the peach-like skin of Mr. Dix. Philip’s was a 
darker and more solid colour, and I have never seen man or 

ro Woman with it and not mistrusted them. He wore a red velvet 
coat embroidered with gold, and as costly ruffles as I had ever 
seen in London. But for all this my cousin had a coarse 
look, and his polished blue flints of eyes were those of a 
coarse man. 

is He got to his feet as Tom spoke, looking anywhere but at 
me, and came forward slowly. He was loyal to no one, was 
Philip, not even to his father. When he got within three 
paces he halted. 

“How do you, cousin?” says he. . 

zo “A little wet, as you perceive, Philip,” I replied. 

I left him and stood before the fire, my rough wool steam- 
ing in the heat. He sat down again, a little awkwardly; and 
the situation began to please me better. 

“How do your” I asked presently. 

2s “I have got a devilish cold,” said he. “Faith, I’ll warrant 
the doctor will be sworn I have been but indifferent company 
since we left the Hall. Eh, doctor?” 

Courtenay, with his feet stretched out, bestowed an amiable 
but languid wink upon me, as much as to say that I knew 

30 What Mr. Philip’s company was at best. When I came out 
after my dinner, they were still sitting there, Courtenay 
yawning, and Tom and Philip wrangling over last night’s 

lay. 
* “Come, my man of affairs, join us a hand!” says the doc- 
35tor to me. “I have known the time when you would sit 
from noon until supper.” 
“YT had money then,”’ said I. 


fourth, or I had never left Inman’s.’ 


VISITORS | 44t 


“ And you have a little now, or I am cursed badly mistook. 
Uons! what do you fear?” he exclaimed, “you that have 
played with March and Fox?” 

“T fear nothing, doctor,”’ I answered, smiling. “ But a man 
must have a sorry honour when he will win fifty pounds with 5 
but ten of capital.”’ 

“One of Dr. Franklin’s maxims, I presume,”’ says he, with 
sarcasm. 

‘And if it were, it could scarce be more pat,” I retorted. 
“Tis Poor Richard’s maxim.” 10 
“O lud! O my soul!” cries Tom, with a hiccup and a snig- 
ger; “’tis time you made another grand tour, Courtenay. 
Here’s the second Whig has got in on you within the 

week!”’ 

“T thank God they have not got me down to osnabrig and 15 
bumbo yet,” replies the doctor. Coming over to me by the. 
fire, he tapped my sleeve and added in a low tone: “ Forbear- 
ance with such a pair of asses is enough to make a man shed 
bitter tears. But a little of it is necessary to keep out of 
debt. You and I will play together, against both the lambs, zo 
Richard. One of them is not far from maudlin now.”’ 

“Thank you, doctor,” I answered politely, “but I have a 
better way to make my living.” In three years I had learned 
a little to control my temper. . 

He shrugged his thin shoulders. “Eh bien, mon bon,” says 25 
he, “I dare swear you know your own game better than do I.” 
And he cast a look up the stairs, of which I quite missed the 
meaning. Indeed, I was wholly indifferent. The doctor and 
his like had passed out of my life, and I believed they were 
soon to disappear from our Western Hemisphere. ‘The report 30 
I had heard now was confirmed, that his fortune was dissi- 
pated, and that he lived entirely off these young rakes who 
aspired to be macaronies. 

“Since your factor is become a damned Lutheran, ‘Tonk 
said he, returning to the table and stripping a pack, “it will 35 


have to be picquet. You promised me we could count on a 
> 


> 


442 RICHARD CARVEL \z 
It was Tom, as I had feared, who sat down unsteadily op-_ 
posite. Philip lounged and watched them sulkily, snuffing — 
and wheezing and dipping into the bowl, and cursing the house 
for a draughty barn. I took a pipe on the settle to see what 
s would come of it. I was not surprised that Courtenay lost at 
first, and that Tom drank the most of the punch. Nor was it 
above half an hour before the stakes were raised and the tide 
began to turn in the doctor’s favour. \ 
“A plague of you, Courtenay!” cries Mr. Tom, at length, 
ro flinging down the cards. His voice was thick, while the 
Selwyn of Annapolis was never soberer in his life. Tom 
appealed first to Philip for the twenty pounds he owed him. 

“You know how damned stingy my father is, curse you,” 
whined my cousin, in return. “I told you I should not have" 

rs it till the first of the month.” 

‘Tom swore back. He thrust his hands deep in his pockets — 
and sank into that attitude of dejection common to drunk-— 
ards. Suddenly he pulled himself up. 

“’Shblood! Here’s Richard t’ draw from. Lemme have 

20 fifty pounds, Richard.” . 

“Not a farthing,” I said, unmoved. 

“You say wha’ shall be done with my father’s money!” — 
he cried. “I call tha’ damned cool—Gad’s life! I do. Eh, 
Courtenay?” i 

2s Courtenay had the sense not to interfere. | 

“Vil have you discharged, Gad’s death! so I will!” lial 
shouted. ‘No damned airs wi’ me, Mr. Carvel. I'll have you © 
know you’re not wha’ you once were, but only a cursht over- 


ry 

sheer.” 
30 He struggled to his feet, forgot his wrath on the instant, 

and began to sing drunkenly the words of a ribald air. I took © 

him by both shoulders and pushed him back into his chair. ¢ 


ue 


— “Be quiet,” [ said sternly; “while your mother and sister 
are here you shall not insult them with such a song.” He — 
35 ceased, astonished. ‘And as for you, gentlemen,” I con- 


tinued, “you should know better than to make a place of 
resort out of a gentleman’s house.” ig 








VISITORS 443 


Courtenay’s voice broke the silence that followed. 

“Of all the cursed impertinences I ever saw, egad!’’ he 
drawled. “Is this your manor, Mr. Carvel? Or have you a 
seat in Kent?” 

I would not have it in black and white that I am an advo-s 
cate of fighting. But at that moment I was in the mood 
when it does not matter much one way or the other. The 
drunken man carried us past the point. 

“The damned in-intriguing rogue’sh worked himself into 
my father’s grashes,”’ he said, counting out his words. “‘He’sh 10 
no more Whig than me. I know’sh game, Courtenay— he 
wants t’ marry Patty. Thish place’ll be hers.” 

The effect upon me of these words, with all their hideous 
implication of gossip and scandal, was for an instant be- 
numbing. The interpretation of the doctor’s innuendo struck 15 
me then. I was starting forward, with a hand open to clap 
over [om’s mouth, when I saw the laugh die on Courtenay’s 
face, and him come bowing to his legs. IJ turned with a 
Start. 

On the stairs stood Patty herself, pale as marble. 20 

**Come with me, Tom,” she said. 

He had obeyed her from childhood. This time he tried, 
and failed miserably. 

“Beg pardon, Patty,’’ he stammered, “no offensh meant. 
Thish factor things h’ ownsh Gordon’s now. I say, not’ll h’ 25 
marries you. Good fellow, Richard, but infernal forward. 
Eh, Courtenay?” 

Philip turned away, while the doctor pretended to examine 
the silver punch ladle. As for me, I could only stare. It was 
Patty who kept her head, and made us a stately curtsey. 30 

Will you do me the kindness, gentlemen,” said she, “‘to 
leave me with my brother?”’ 

We walked silently into the parlour, and I closed the 
door. 

“Slife!”’ cried Courtenay, “she’s a vision. What say you, 35 
Philip? And I might see her in that guise again, egad, I 
would forgive Tom his five hundred crowns!” 


ae RICHARD CARVEL , 


} 
) 





‘A buxom vision,” agreed my cousin, “but I vow I like ’em™ 
so.” He had forgotten ‘his cold. , 

“This conversation is all of a piece with the rest of your 
conduct,” said I, hotly. 

3s The candles were burning brightly in the sconces. The 
doctor walked to the glass, took snuff, and brushed his waist-— 
coat before he answered. ; 

“Sure, a fortune lies under every virtue we assume,” he 
recited. ‘‘But she is not for you, Richard,”’ says he, tapping | ; 

Io his box. 

“Mr. Carvel, if you please,”’ I replied. I felt the demon 
within me. But I had the sense to realize that a quarrel with - 
Dr. Courtenay, under the circumstances, would be far from — 
wise. He had no intention of quarreling, however. He made 

15 me a grand bow. 

“Mr. Carvel, your very obedient. Hereafter I shall know 
better than to forget myself with an overseer.”” And he 
gave me his back. ‘‘What say you to a game of billiards, 
Philip?” 

20 Philip seemed glad to escape. And soon I heard their voices 
mingling with the click of the balls. There followed for me — 
one of the bitterest half hours I have had in my life. Theng " 
Patty opened the hall door. | 

“Will you come in for a moment, Richard?” she said, 

25 quite calmly. : 

I followed her, wondering at the masterful spirit she had 
shown. For there was ee all askew in his chair, his feet” 
one way and his hands another, totally subdued. What was 4 
most of the point, he made me an elaborate apology. How © 

30 she had sobered his mind I know not. His body was as help-— 
less as the day he was born. i 

Long before the guests thought of rising the next morning, 
Patty came to me as I was having the mare saddled. The sun 
was up, and the clouds were being chased, like miscreants — 

3s who have played their prank, and were now running for it. — 
The sharp air brought the red into her cheeks. And for the 
first time in her life with me she showed shyness. She 









VISITORS 445 


glanced up into my face, and then down at the leaves run- 
ning on the ground. 

“I hope they will go to-day,”’ said she, when I was ready to 
mount. 

I began to tighten the girths, venting my feelings on Fire- 5 
fly until the animal swung around and made a vicious pass 
at my arm. 

“ Richard!?’ 

‘AV ae +9 

“You will not worry over that senseless speech of Tom’s?”’ 10 

“T see it in a properer light now, Patty,’ I replied. “We 
usually do—in the morning.” 

She sighed. 

“You are so high-strung,” she said, “I was afraid you 
would—”’ 15 

“T would—?”’ 

She did not answer until I had repeated. 

“I was very silly,” she said slowly, her colour mounting 
even higher, “I was afraid that you would—leave us.” Strok- 
ing the mare’s neck, and with a little halt 1 mn her voice, “‘I do 20 
not know what we should do without you.’ 

Indeed, I was beginning to think I would better leave, 
though where I should go was more than I| could say. With 
a quick intuition she caught my hand as [ put foot in the 
stirrup. 25 

“You will not go away!” she cried. “Say you will not! 
What would poor father do? He is not so well as he used 
to be.” 

The wild appeal in her eyes frightened me. It was beyond 
‘resisting. In great agitation [ put my foot to the ground 30 
again. 

“Patty, I should be a graceless scamp in bare y I ex- 
claimed. “I do not forget that your father gave me a home 
when mine was taken away, and has made me one of his 
family. I shall thank God if I can but lighten some of his 35 
burdens.”’ 

But they did not depart that day, nor the next; nor, indeed, 


mie 55 : 


446 RICHARD CARVEL 


for a week after. For Philip’s cold brought on a high fever. 
He stuck to his bed, and Patty herself made broth and dainties” 
for him, and prescribed him medicine out of the oak chest” 
whence had come so much comfort. At first Philip thought 
s he would die, and forswore wine and cards, and some other 
things the taste for which he had cultivated, and likewise 
worse vices that had come to him by nature. 
I am greatly pleased to write that the stay profited the gal- _ 
lant Dr. Courtenay nothing. Patty’s mature beauty and her 
ro manner of carrying off the episode in the hall had made a deep | 
impression upon the Censor. I read the man’s mind in his 
eye; here was a match to mend his fortunes, and do him” 
credit besides. However, his wit and his languishing glances 
and double meanings fell on barren ground. No tire-woman 
15 0n the plantation was busier than Patty during the first few 
days of his stay. After that he grew sulky and vented his? 
spleen on poor Tom, winning more money from him at 
billiards and picquet. Since the doctor was too much the~ 
macaroni to ride to hounds and to shoot ducks, time began 
20 to hang exceeding heavy on his hands. 
Patty and I had many a quiet laugh over his predicament. 
And, to add zest to the situation, I informed Singleton of what - 
was going forward. He came over every night for supper, 
and to my delight the bluff Englishman was received in a_ 
2s fashion to make the doctor writhe and snort with mortifica- 
tion. Never in his life had he been so insignificant a per- 
son. And he, whose conversation was so sought after in the 
gay season in town, was thrown for companionship upon a- 
scarce-grown boy whose talk was about as salted, and whose 
30 intellect as great, as those of the cockerouse in our fable. He 
stood it about a se’nnight, at the end of which space Philip” 
was put on his horse, will-he nill-he, and made to ride north- 
ward. 2 
I sat with my cousin of an evening as he lay in bed. Not, 
35 | own, from any charity on my part, but from other motives” 
which do me no credit. The first night he confessed his sins, 
and they edified me not a little. On the second he was well 





VISITORS 447 


enough to sit up and swear, and to vow that Miss Swain was 
an angel; that he would marry her the very next week and 
his father Grafton were not such a stickler for family. 
~ “Curse him,” says his dutiful and loyal son, “he is so bally 
stingy with my stipend that I amin debt to half the province. 5 
And I say it myself, Richard, he has been a blackguard to 
ou, tho’ I allow him some little excuse. You were faring 
Better now, my dear cousin, and you had not given him every 
reason to hate you. For I have heard him declare more than 
once—’pon my soul, I have—that he would rather you were 10 
his friend than his enemy.” 
_ My contempt for Philip kept me silent here. T might quar- 
rel with Grafton, who had sense enough to feel pain at a well- 
deserved thrust. Philip had not the intelligence to recognize 
insult from compliment. It was but natural he should mis- 15 
take my attitude now. He leaned forward in his bed. 

“Hark you, Richard,” whispers he, with a glance at the 
door, “I might tell you some things and I chose, and—and it 
were worth my while.” : 
| “Worth your while?” I repeated vaguely. 20 
’ He traced nervously the figures on the counterpane. Next 
‘came a rush of anger to redden his face. 
| “By Gad, I will tell you. Swear to Gad I will.” Then, the 
little cunning inherited from his father asserting itself, he 
added, “ Look you, Richard, Iam the son of one of the richest 
‘men in the colony, and I get the pittance of a backwoods pas- 
tor. I tell you ’tis not to be borne with. And [ am not of as 
much consideration at the Hall as Brady, the Irish convict, 
who has become overseer.” 

_ L little wondered at this. Philip sank back, and for some 30 
‘moments eyed me between narrowed lids. He continued pres- 
‘ently with shortened breath:— 
“T have evidence—I have evidence to get you back a good 
‘share of the estate, which my father will never miss. And I 
will do it,” he cries, suddenly bold, “1 will do it for three 35 
thousand pounds down when you receive ikat 
- This was why he had come with Tom to Talbot! I was so 


to 


G 










‘a 


Z 
dumfounded that my speech was quite taken away. Then I 
got up and began pacing the room. Was it not fair to fight 
a scoundred with his own weapons? Here at last was the 
witness Mr. Swain had been seeking so long, come of his own 

-s free will. Then—Heaven help me!—my mind flew on. As 
time had passed I had more than once regretted refusing the 
Kent plantation, which had put her from whom my thought 
never wandered within my reach again. Good Mr. Swain had 
erred for once. Iwas foolish, indeed, not to accept a por 

zo tion of what was rightfully mine, when no more could be 
got. And now, if what Philip said was true (and I doubted 
it not), here at last was the chance come again to win her 
without whom I should never be happy. I glanced at my 
cousin. | 

1s “‘Gad’s life!” says he, “it is cheap enough. I might have 
asked you double.”’ ’ 

“So you might, and have been refused,” I cried hotly. For 
I believe that speech of his recalled me to my senses. It has 
ever been an instinct with me that no real prosperity comes 
so out of double-dealing. And commerce with such a sneak 
sickened me. ‘‘Go back to your father, Philip, and threaten 
him, and he may make you rich. Such as he live by black- 
mail. And you may add, and you will, that the day of retribu- 
tion is coming for him,” 


AaB RICHARD CARVEL 


CHAPTER XLVIII 


MULTUM IN PARVO 


I Lost no time after getting to Annapolis in confiding to 
Mr. Swain the conversation I had had with my cousin Philip. 
And I noticed, as he sat listening to my account in the library 
in Gloucester Street, that the barrister looked very worn. He 
had never been a strong man, and the severe strain hes 
had been under with the patriots’ business was beginning 
to tell. 

_ He was very thoughtful when I had finished, and then told 
me briefly that I had done well not to take the offer. “Tucker 
would have made but short work of such evidence, my lad,”’ 10 
said he, ‘“‘and I think Master Philip would have lied himself 
in and out a dozen times. I cannot think what witness he 
would have introduced save Mr. Allen. And there is scarcely 

a doubt that your uncle pays him for his silence, for | am told 
he is living in Frederick in a manner far above what hers 
gets from the parish. However, Philip has given us some- 
thing more to work on. It may be that he can put hands 
on the messenger.” 

_ I rose to go. 

_ “We shall bring them to earth yet, Richard, and I live,” 20 
he added. ‘And I have always meant to ask you whether 
“you ever regretted your decision in taking Gordon’s Pride.” 

_ ‘And you live, sir!” I exclaimed, not heeding the question. 

_ He smiled somewhat sadly. 

t “Of one thing I am sure, my lad,” he continued, “which 1s 2s 
‘that I have had no regrets about taking you. Mr. Bordley 
i just been here, and tells me you are the ablest young man 
‘in the province. You see that more eyes than mine are upon 
you. You have proved yourself a man, Richard, and there 


449 





450 RICHARD CARVEL 





are very few macaronies would have done as you did. [ 
am resolved to add another little mite to your salary.” @ 

The “little mite” was of such a substantial nature that I 
protested strongly against it. I thought of Tom’s demands 

5s upon him. 

“T could afford to give you double for what you have made 
off the place,” he interrupted. “But I do not believe in 
young men eos too much.” He sighed, and turned to hg 
work. 

zo I hesitated. “You have spent time and labour upon my 
case, sir, and have asked no fee.” 

“TY shall speak of the fee when I win it,” he said dryly, 
“and not before. How would you like to be clerk this win- 
ter to the Committee of Correspondence?” > 

re as a my pleasure was expressed in my face. 

“Well,”’ said he, “T have got you the appointment without 
much difficulty. There are many ways in which you can iP 
useful to the party when not helping me with my affairs.” 

This conversation gave me food for reflection during a 

2oweek. | was tioubtedsabone Mr. Swain, and what he had 
said as to not living kept running in my head as I wrote 
or figured. For I had enough to hold me busy. 

In the meantime, the clouds fast gathering on both sides of 
the Atlantic grew black, and blacker still. I saw a great 

25 change in Annapolis. Men of affairs went about with grave 
faces, while gay < sa sober alike were touched by the spell. The 
Tory gentry, to be sure, rattled about in their gilded mahog- 
any coaches, i in spite of jeers and sour looks. My Aunt Caro- 
line wore jewelled stomachers to the assemblies,—now become 

30 dry and shrivelled entertainments. She kept her hairdresser, 
had three men in livery to her chair, and a little negro in 
Turk’s costume to wait on her. I often met her in the streets, 
and took a fierce joy in staring her in the eye. And Grafton! 
By a sort of fate I was continually running against him. He 

3s Was a very busy man, was my uncle, and had a kind of digni- 
fied run, which he used between Marlboro’ Street and the 
Council Chamber in the Stadt House, or the Governor’s man= 





ty 










MULTUM IN PARVO 4st 


sion. He never did me the honour to glance at me. The 
Rev. Mr. Allen, too, came a-visiting from Frederick, where 
he had grown stout as an alderman upon the living and its 
perquisites and Grafton’s additional bounty. The gossips 
were busy with his doings, for he had his travelling-coach and 5 
Servant now. He went to the Tory balls with my aunt. Once 
I all but encountered him on the Circle, but he ran into 
Northeast Street to avoid me. 
. Yes, that was the winter when the wise foresaw the inevi- 
table, and the first sharp split occurred between men who had x0 
been brothers. ‘The old order of things had plainly passed, 
and | was truly thankful that my grandfather had not lived to 
witness those scenes. The greater part of our gentry stood 
firm for America’s rights, and they had behind them the best 
lawyers in America. After the lawyers came the small plant-15 
ers and most of the mechanics. The shopkeepers formed the 
backbone of King George’s adherents; the Tory gentry, the 
clergy, and those holding office under the proprietor made 
the rest. 
' And it was all about tea, a word which, since ’67, had been 20 
steadily becoming the most vexed in the language. The East 
India Company had put forth a complaint. They had 
Heaven knows how many tons getting stale in London ware- 
houses, all by reason of our stubbornness, and so it was 
enacted that all tea paying the small American tax should 25 
have a rebate of the English duties. That was truly a mas- 
ter-stroke, for Parliament to give it us cheaper than it could 
be had at home! To cause his Majesty’s government to lose 
revenues for the sake of being able to say they had caught and 
taxed us at last! The happy result is now history, my dears. 30 
And this is not a history, tho’ I wish it were. What occurred 
at Boston, at Philadelphia, and Charleston, has since caused 
Englishmen, as well as Americans, to feel proud. ‘The chief 
incident in Annapolis [ shall mention in another chapter. 
» When it became known with us that several cargoes were on 35 
eir way to the colonies, excitement and indignation gained 
a pitch not reached since the Stamp Act. Business came to a 





452 RICHARD CARVEL 


‘ 


standstill, plantations lay idle, and gentry and farmers flocked 
to Annapolis, and held meetings and made resolutions anew. 
On my way of a morning from Mr. Swain’s house to his cham- 
bers in the Circle I would meet as many as a dozen knots of 
s people. Mr. Claude was one of the few patriots who reaped 
reward out of the disturbance, for his inn was crowded. The 
Assembly met, appointed committees to correspond with the 
other colonies, and was prorogued once and again. Many a 
night I sat up until the small hours copying out letters to the 
ro committees of Virginia, and Pennsylvania, and Massachusetts. 
The gentlemen were wont to dine at the Coffee House, and | 
would sit near the foot of the table, taking notes of their plans, 
’Twas so 1 met many men of distinction from the other colo- 
nies. Colonel Washington came once. He was grown a 

15 greater man than ever, and I thought him graver than when 
I had last seen him. I believe a trait of this gentleman was 
never to forget a face. 

“How do you, Richard?” said he. How I reddened when 
he called me so before all the committee. “I have heard your 

20 story, and it does you vast credit. And the gentlemen tell me 
you are earning laurels, sir.”’ 

That first winter of the tea troubles was cold and wet with 

us, and the sun, as if in sympathy with the times, rarely 

~ showed his face. Early in February our apprehensions con- 

2s cerning Mr. Swain’s health were realized. One day, without 

a word to anyone, he went to his bed, where Patty found him, 

And [ ran all the way to Dr. Leiden’s. The doctor looked at 

him, felt his pulse and his chest, and said nothing. But he 
did not rest that night, nor did Patty or I. 

30 Thus I came to have to do with the good barrister’s private 
affairs. I knew that he was a rich man, as riches went in out 
province, but I had never tried to guess at his estate. I con- 
fess the sums he had paid out in Tom’s behalf frightened me, 
With the advice of Mr. Bordley and Mr. Lloyd I managed his 

3s money as best I could, but by reason of the non-importation 
resolutions there was little chance for good investments,—n¢ 
cargoes coming and few going. I saw, indeed, that buy- 

; | 


| | 


MULTUM IN PARVO 453 


ing the Talbot estate had been a fortunate step, since the 
quantities of wheat we grew there might be disposed of in 
PAmerica.. © . . 

When Dr. Leiden was still coming twice a day to Glouces- 
ter Street, Mr. Tom must needs get into a scrape with ones 
of the ladies of the theatre, and come to me in the Circle 
chambers for one hundred pounds. I told him, in despair, 
that I had no authority to pay out his father’s money. 

“And so you have become master, sure enough!” he cried, 
in a passion. For he was desperate. “You have worked your 10 
way in vastly well, egad, with your Whig committee meetings 
and speeches. And now he is on his back, and you have pos- 
session, you choose to cut me off. *Slife, | know what will be 
coming next!” 

I pulled him into Mr. Swain’s private room, where we 1s 
would be free of the clerks. 

“Yes, I am master here,” I replied, sadly enough, as he 
stood sullenly before me. ‘‘I should think you would be 
ashamed to own it. When I came to your father I was con- 
tent to be overseer in Talbot, and thankful for his bounty. 20 
*Tis no fault of mine, but your disgrace, that his son 1s not 
managing his business, and supporting him in the rights of 
his country. I am not very old, Yom. A year older than you, 
I believe. But I have seen enough of life to prophesy your 
end and you do not reform.”’ | 

“We are turned preacher,” he says, with a sneer. 

““God forbid! But I have been in a sponging-house, and 
tasted the lowest dregs. And if this country becomes free, 
as I think it will some day, such as you will be driven to 
England, and die in the Fleet.”’ ag 
_ “Not while my father lives,” retorts he, and throws aside 
the oiled silk cape with a London name upon it. The day was 
rainy. 

_ Igroaned. My responsibility lay heavy upon me. And this 
Was not my first scene with him. He continued doggedly :— 35 
_ “You have no right to deny me what is not yours. “Iwill 
De mine one day.”’ 


25 










454 RICHARD CARVEL ) 


“You have no right to accuse me of thoughts that do n 
occur to men of honour,” I replied. “I am slower to ang 
than I once was, but I give you warning now. Do you kno 
that you will ruin your father in another year and you 

5 continue?” ; ; | 

He gave me no answer. I reached for the ledger, and turns 
ing the pages, called off to him the sums he had spent. =~ 

“‘Oh, have done, d—n it!” he cried, when I was not a third 
through. ‘Are you or are you not to give me the money?” 

ro ‘‘And you are to spend it upon an actress?” I should have 
called her by a worse name. } 

“‘ Actress!” he shouted. ‘‘Have you seen her in The Or 

phan? My soul, she is a divinity!”” Then he shifted suddenly 
to whining and cringing. “I am ruined outright, Richard 
1s if I do not get it.” a 

Abjectly he confessed the situation, which had in it enough 
material for a scandal to set the town wagging for a month. 
And the weight of it would fall, as I well knew, upon those 
who deserved it least. af 

20 ‘I will lend you the money, or, rather, will pay it for you, ~ 
I said, at last. For I was not so foolish as to put it into 
his hands. “You shall have the sum under certain condi 
tions.” if 

He agreed to them before they were out of my mouth, and 

2s swore in a dozen ways that he would repay me every farthing: 
He was heartily tired of the creature, and, true to his nature, 
afraid of her. That night when the play was over I went to 
her lodging, and after a scene too distressing to dwell upon, 
bought her off. i 

30. Lsat with Mr. Swain many an hour that spring, with ke 









sewing at the window open to the garden. Often, as we talked, 
unnoticed by her father she would drop her work and the 
tears glisten in her eyes. For the barrister’s voice was not a8 
‘strong as it once was, and the cold would not seem to lif 
3sfrom his chest. So this able man, who might have sat m 
the seats of Maryland’s high reward, was stricken when he w 
needed most. 


MULTUM IN PARVO 455 





He was permitted two visitors a day: now ’twas Mr. Carroll 

and Colonel Lloyd, again Colonel Tilghman and Captain 

_ Clapsaddle, or Mr. Paca and Mr. Bordley. The gentlemen 

took turns, and never was their business so pressing that they 

_ missed their hour. Mr. Swain read all the prints, and‘on his s 

easier days would dictate to me his views for the committee, 

or a letter signed Brutus for Mr. Green to put in the Gazette. 

_ So I became his mouthpiece at the meetings, and learned to 
formulate my thoughts and to speak clearly. 

| For fear of confusing this narrative, my dears, I have re- 10 

ferred but little to her who was in my thoughts night and day, 

and whose locket I wore, throughout all those years, next my 

heart. I used to sit out under the stars at Gordon’s Pride, 

_ with the river lapping at my feet, and picture her the shining 

| centre of all the brilliant scenes I had left, and wonder if zs 

she still thought of me. 

| Nor have I mentioned that faithful correspondent, and 

more faithful friend, Lord Comyn. As soon as ever I[ had 
obtained from Captain Daniel my mother’s little inheritance 

| I sent off the debt I owed his Lordship. ’Iwas a year before 20 
I got him to receive it; he despatched the money back once, 
saying that [ had more need of it than he. I smiled at this, 

| for my Lord was never within his income, and I made no 
doubt he had signed a note to cover my indebtedness. 

| Every letter Comyn writ me was nine parts Dolly, and 2; 
the rest of his sheet usually taken up with Mr. Fox and his 
calamities: these had fallen upon him very thick of late. Lord 

/ Holland had been forced to pay out a hundred thousand 
pounds for Charles, and even this enormous sum did not en- 
tirely free Mr. Fox from the discounters and the hounds. The 30 

reason for this sudden onslaught was the birth of a boy to his 
brother Stephen, who was heir to the title. “When they told 
Charles of it,” Comyn wrote, “said he, coolly: ‘My brother 

Ste’s son is a second Messiah, born for the destruction of the 
Jews.’ ” 35 

I saw no definite signs, as yet, of the conversion of this 


” which I so earnestly hoped for. He had quarrelled 


456 RICHARD CARVEL | 


with North, lost his place on the Admiralty, and presently the 
King had made him a Lord of the Treasury, tho’ more out of 
fear than love. Once in a while, when he saw Comyn at Al- 
mack’s, he would desire to be remembered to me, and he 
salways spoke of me with affection. But he could be got to 
write to no one, said my Lord, with kind exaggeration; nor 
will he receive letters, for fear he may get a dun. 
Alas, I got no message from Dorothy! Nor had she ever 
mentioned my name to Comyn. He had not seen her for eight 
romonths after I left England, as she had been taken to the 
Continent for her health. She came back to London more 
ravishing than before, and (I use his Lordship’s somewhat ex- 
travagant language) her suffering had stamped upon her face 
even more of character and power. She had lost much of her 
1s levity, likewise. In short, my Lord declared, she was more of 
the queen than ever, and the mystery which hung over the 
Vauxhall duel had served only to add to her fame. 
Dorothy having become cognizant of Mr. Marmaduke’s 
‘trickery, Chartersea seemed to have dropped out of the race. 
20 He now spent his time very evenly between Spa and Derresley 
and Paris. Hence I had so much to be thankful for,—that 
with all my blunders, I had saved her from his Grace. My 
Lord the Marquis of Wells was now most conspicuous amongst 
her suitors. Comyn had nothing particular against this noble- 
>s man, saying that he was a good fellow, with a pretty fortune. 
And here is a letter, my dears, in which he figures, that I 
brought to Gordon’s Pride that spring:— 


“ro Souru Parape, Batx, 
March 12, 1774. 
“Dear Ricuarp:—Miss Manners has come to Bath, with 
a train behind her longer than that which followed good 
Queen Anne hither, when she made this Gehenna the fashion. 
Her triumphal entry last Wednesday was announced by such 
a peal of the abbey bells as must have cracked the metal (for 
3s they have not rung since) and started Beau Nash a-cursing 
where he lies under the floor. Next came her serenade by 


30 


A 
y 


MULTUM IN PARVO 457 


the band. Mr. Marmaduke swore they would never have 
done, and squirmed and grinned like Punch when he thought 
of the fee,—for he had hoped to get off with a crown, I war- 
rant you. You should have seen his face when they would 
accept no fee at all for the beauty! Some wag has writ as 
verse about it, which was printed, and has set the whole pump- 
room laughing this morning. 
| _ “She was led out by Wells in the Seasons last night. As 
Spring she is too bewildering for my pen,—all primrose and 
white, with the flowers in her blue-black hair. Had Sirzo 
ie seen her, he would never rest content till he should 
ave another portrait. The Duc de Lauzun, who contrived 
to get two dances, might give you a description in a more 
suitable language than English. And there was a prodigious 
deal of jealousy among the fair ones on the benches, you zs 
may be sure, and much jaundiced comment. 

“Some half dozen of us adorers have a mess at the Bear, 
and have offered up a prize for the most appropriate toast on 
the beauty. This is in competition with Mrs. Miller. Have 
you not heard of her among your tobacco-hills? Horry calls 20 
her Mrs. ‘Calliope’ Miller. At her place near here, Bath 
Easton Villa, she has set up a Roman vase bedecked with 
myrtle, and into this we drop our bouts-rimés. Mrs. Calliope 
has a ball every Thursday, when the victors are crowned. 
Tother day the theme was ‘A Buttered Muffin,’ and her 2s 
Grace of Northumberland was graciously awarded the prize. 
In faith, that theme taxed our wits at the Bear,—how to 
weave Miss Dolly’s charms into a verse on a buttered muffin. 

I shall not tire you with mine. Storer’s deserved to win, and 
we whisper that Mrs. Calliope ruled it out through spite. 30 
‘When Phyllis eats,’ so it began, and I vow ’twas devilish 
ingenious. 

“We do nothing but play lansquenet and tennis, and go to 
the assembly, and follow Miss Dolly into Gill’s, the pastry- 
cook’s, where she goes every morning to take a jelly. The 35 
‘ubiquitous Wells does not give us much chance. He writes 


4 


vers de société with the rest, is high in Mr. Marmaduke’s 


458 RICHARD CARVEL 


favour, which alone is enough to damn his progress. I think 
she is ill of the sight of him. 
‘““ Albeit she does not mourn herself into a tree, Ill take 
oath your Phyllis is true to you, Richard, and would live with 
syou gladly in a thatched hut and you asked her. Write me 
more news of yourself. 
““Your ever affectionate 
““ComMYN. 


“DP. S. I have had news of you through Mr. Worthington, 
10 of your colony, who is just arrived here. He tells me that you 
have gained a vast reputation for your plantation, and like- 
wise that you are thought much of by the Whig wiseacres, and 
that you hold many seditious offices. He does not call them 
so. Since your modesty will not permit you to write me any 
15 of these things, I have been imagining you driving slaves with 
a rawhide, and sending runaway convicts to the mines. Mr. 
W. is even now paying his respects to Miss Manners, and | 
doubt not trumpeting your praises there, for he seems to like 
you. So I asked him to join the Bear mess. One more 
20 unfortunate! 
“PS. I was near forgetting the news about Charles Fox. 
He sends you his love, and tells me to let you know that he 
has been turned out of North’s house for good and all. He is 
sure you will be cursed happy over it, and says that you pre- 
2s dicted he would go over to the Whigs. I can scarce believe 
that he will. North took a whole week to screw up his 
courage, h—s M—j—sty pricking him every day. And then 
he wrote this: ‘Sir, his Majesty has thought proper to order 
a new Commission of the Treasury to be made out, in which 
301 do not see your name.’ Poor Charles! He is now without 
money or place, but as usual appears to worry least of all of 
us, and still reads his damned Tasso for amusement. 
ce i 99 
Perchance he was to be the Saint Paul of English politics, 
35 after alll. 


CHAPTER XLIX 


LIBERTY LOSES A FRIEND 


: Mr. Borptey’s sloop took Mr. Swain to Gordon’s Pride in 
May, and they placed him in the big room overlooking the wid- 
ening river. There he would lie all day long, staring through 
the leaves at the water, or listening to the sweet music of his 
daughter’s voice as she read from the pompous prints of the s 
time. Gentlemen continued to come to the plantation, for 
the barrister’s wisdom was sorely missed at the councils. One 
day, as I rode in from the field, I found Colonel Lloyd just 
arrived from Philadelphia, sipping sangaree on the lawn 
and mopping himself with his handkerchief. His jolly face ro 
was troubled. He waved his hand at me. 

“Well, Richard,” says he, “we children are to have our 
first whipping. At least one of us. And the rest are re- 
solved to defy our parent.” 

“Boston, Mr. Lloyd?” I asked. 15 

“Yes, Boston,” he replied, ‘“her port is closed, and we are 
forbid any intercourse with her until she comes to her senses. 
And her citizens must receive his gracious Majesty’s troopers 
into their houses. And if a man kill one of them, by any 
chance, he is to go to England to be tried. And there 1s more 20 
quite as bad.” 

“?Tis bad enough!” I cried, flinging myself down. And 
Patty gave me a glass in silence. 

“Ay, but you must hear all,”’ said he; “our masters are of 
a mind to do the thing thoroughly. Canada is given some 25 
score of privileges. Her French Roman Catholics, whom we 
fought not long since, are thrown a sop, and those vast terri- 
tories between the lakes and the Ohio and Mississippi are 
given to Quebec as a price for her fidelity. And so, if the 


459 


a a eel TNT eee eee eae a ee eee eS SS 


460 RICHARD CARVEL 


worst comes to worst, George’s regiments will have a place to 
land against us.” 
Such was the news, and though we were some hundreds of 
miles from Massachusetts, we felt their cause as our own. 
s There was no need of the appeal which came by smoking 
horses from Philadelphia, for the indignation of our people 
was roused to the highest pitch. Now Mr. Swain had to take 
to his bed from the excitement. * 
This is not a history, my dears, as I have said. And time 
rois growing short. I shall pass over that dreary summer of 
*74. It required no very keen eye to see the breakers ahead, 
and Mr. Bordley’s advice to provide against seven years of 
famine did not go unheeded. War was the last thing we 
desired. We should have been satisfied with so little, we 
rs colonies! And would have voted the duties ten times over 
had our rights been respected. Should any of you doubt this, 
you have but to read the “Address to the King” of our Con- 
gress, then sitting in Philadelphia. The quarrel was so petty, 
and so easy of mending, that you of this generation may won- 
20 der why it was allowed to run. I have tried to tell you 
that the head of a stubborn, selfish, and wilful monarch 
blocked the way to reconciliation. King George the Third 
is alone to blame for that hatred of race against race which — 
already hath done so much evil. And I pray God that a 
25 great historian may arise whose pen will reveal the truth, and 
reconcile at length those who are, and should be brothers. 
By October, that most beautiful month of all the year in 
Maryland, we were again in Annapolis. One balmy day— 
*twas a Friday, I believe, and a gold and blue haze hung over 
30 the Severn—Mr. Chase called in Gloucester Street to give 
the barrister news of the Congress, which he had lately left. 
As.he came down the stairs he paused for a word with me in 
the library, and remarked sadly upon Mr. Swain’s condition. 
“He looks like a dying man, Richard,” said he, “and we can 
35 ill afford to lose him.”’ 
Even as we sat talking in subdued tones, the noise of a dis- 
tant commotion arose. We had scarce started to our feet, 


LIBERTY LOSES A FRIEND 461 
Mr. Chase and J, when the brass knocker resounded, and Mr. 


Hammond was let in. His wig was awry, and his face was 
flushed. 

“T thought to find you here,”’ he said to Mr. Chase. ‘‘The 
Anne Arundel Committee is to meet at once, and we desire to 5 
have you with us.” Perceiving our blank faces, he added: 
“The Peggy Stewart is in this morning with over a ton of tea 
aboard, consigned to the Williams’s.”’ 

The two jumped into a chaise, and I followed afoot, stopped 
at every corner by some excited acquaintance; so that I had 10 
the whole story, and more, ere I reached Church Street. 
The way was blocked before the committee rooms, and ’twas 
said that the merchants, Messrs. Williams, and Captain Jack- 
son of the brig, were within, pleading their cause. 

Presently the news leaked abroad that Mr. Anthony Stew-:5 
art, the brig’s owner, had himself paid the duty on the de- 
tested plant. Some hundreds of people were elbowing each 
other in the street, for the most part quiet and anxious, until 
Mr. Hammond appeared and whispered to a man at the door. 
In all my life before I had never heard the hum of an angry 20 
crowd. The sound had something ominous in it, like the first 
moanings of a wind that is to break off great trees at their 
trunks. Then some one shouted: “To Hanover Street! To 
Hanover Street! We'll have him tarred and feathered before 
the sun is down!”’ The voice sounded strangely like Weld’s. 25 
They charged at this cry like a herd of mad buffalo, the 
weaker ones trampled under foot or thrust against the wall. 
The windows of Mr. Aikman’s shop were shattered. I ran 
with the leaders, my stature and strength standing me in good 
stead more than once, and as we coasted into Northwest 30 
Street I took a glance at the mob behind me, and great was my 
anxiety at not being able to descry one responsible person. 

Mr. Stewart’s house stood, and stands to-day, amid trim 
gardens, in plain sight of the Severn. Arriving there, the 

crowd massed in front of it, some of the boldest pressing in at 35 
_the gate and spreading over the circle of lawn enclosed by the 
driveway. They began to shout hoarsely, with what voices 


462 RICHARD CARVEL 


they had left, for Mr. Stewart to come out, calling him names 
not to be spoken, and swearing they would show him how 
traitors were to be served. I understood then the terror of 
numbers, and shuddered. A chandler, a bold and violent 
s man, whose leather was covered with grease, already had his 
foot on the steps, when the frightened servants slammed the 
door in his face, and closed the lower windows. In vain J 
strained my eyes for some one who might have authority with 
them. They began to pick up stones, though none were 
ro thrown. 

Suddenly a figure appeared at an upper window,—a thin 
and wasted woman dressed in white, with sad, sweet features. 
It was Mrs. Stewart. Without flinching she looked down upon 
the upturned faces; but a mob of that kind has no pity. Their 

15 leaders were the worst class in our province, being mostly 
convicts who had served their terms of indenture. They con- 
tinued to call sullenly for “the traitor.” Then the house 
door opened, and the master himself appeared. He was pale 
and nervous, and no wonder; and his voice shook as he strove 

20 to make himself heard. His words were drowned immediately 
by shouts of “Seize him! Seize the d—d traitor!” “A 
pot and a coat of hot tar!” 

Those who were nearest started forward, and I with them. 
With me ’twas the decision of an instant. I beat the chand- 

25 ler up the steps, and took stand in front of the merchant, 
and I called out to them to fall back. 

To my astonishment they halted. The skirts of the crowd 
were now come to the foot of the little porch. I faced them 
with my hand on Mr. Stewart’s arm, without a thought of 

30 What to do next, and expecting violence. There was a second’s 
hush. Then some one cried out:— 

“Three cheers for Richard Carvel!” 

They gave them with a will that dumfounded me. 

“My friends,” said I, when I had got my wits, “this is 

35 neither the justice nor the moderation for which our province 
is noted. You have elected your committee of your free 
wills, and they have claims before you.” 


# 


LIBERTY LOSES A FRIEND 463 


Ay, ay, the Committee!” they shouted. ‘‘Mr. Carvel is 


‘right. Take him to the Committee!” 


Mr. Stewart raised his hand. 
““My friends,”’ he began, as I had done, “‘when you have 


earned the truth, you will not be so hasty to blame me for an 5 
offence of which I am innocent. The tea was not for me. 
|The brig was in a leaky and dangerous state and had fifty 


souls aboard her. I paid the duty out of humanity—”’ 


He had come so far, when they stopped him. 
“Oh, a vile Tory!” they shouted. “He is conniving with ro 


‘the Council. ’Twas put up between them.” And they fol- 
lowed this with another volley of hard names, until I feared 
' that his chance was gone. 


“You would best go before the Committee, Mr. Stewart,” I 


: said. 15 


“T will go with Mr. Carvel, my friends,’’ he cried at once. 


And he invited me into the house whilst he ordered his coach. 


2 
4 
| 
! 


i 
2 
\ 


' 
i 


I preferred to remain outside. 

I asked them if they would trust me with Mr. Stewart to 
Church Street. 20 
“Yes, yes, Mr. Carvel, we know you,” said several. “He 
has good cause to hate Tories,” called another, with a laugh. 

I knew the voice. 


“For shame, Weld,” I cried. And I saw McNeir, who 


| was a stanch friend of mine, give him a cuff to send him 25 


spinning. 
To my vast satisfaction they melted away, save only a few 


| of the idlest spirits, who hung about the gate, and cheered as 
we drove off. Mr. Stewart was very nervous, and profuse in 
‘his gratitude. I replied that I had acted only as would have 30 


SEE 


— 


any other responsible citizen. On the way he told me enough 
of his case to convince me that there was much to be said on 
his side, but I thought it the better part of wisdom not to 
commit myself. The street in front of the committee rooms 
was empty, and I was informed that a town meeting had been 35 


‘called immediately at the theatre in West Street. And I 


advised Mr. Stewart to attend. But through anxiety or 


464 | RICHARD CARVEL 


anger, or both, he was determined not to go, and drove back 
to his house without me. 

I had got as far as St. Anne’s, halfway to the theatre, when 
it suddenly struck me that Mr. Swain must be waiting for 

snews. With a twinge I remembered what Mr. Chase had said 
about the barrister’s condition, and I hurried back to Glouces- 
ter Street, much to the surprise of those I met on their way 
to the meeting. I was greatly relieved, when I arrived, to 
find Patty on the porch. I knew she had never been there 

ro were her father worse. After a word with her and her mother, 
I went up the stairs. 

It was the hour for the barrister’s nap. But he was awake, 
lying back on the pillows, with his eyes half closed. He was 
looking out into the garden, which was part orchard, now be- 

15 ginning to shrivel and to brown with the first touch of frosts. 

“That 1s you, Richard?” he inquired, without moving. 
“What is going forward to-day?’’ 

I toned down the news, so as not to excite him, and left out 
the occurrence in Hanover Street. He listened with his ac- 

20 customed interest, but when I had done he asked no questions, 
and lay for a long time silent. Then he begged me to bring 
my chair nearer. 

“Richard,—my son,” said he, with an evident effort, “I 
have never thanked you for your, devotion to me and mine 

25 through the best years of your life. It shall not go unre- 
warded, my lad.”’ 

It seemed as if my heart stood still with the presage of 
what was to come. 

““May God reward you, sir!’’ I said. 

30“ [have wished to speak to you,” he continued, “and I may 
not have another chance. I have arranged with Mr. Carroll, 
the barrister, to take your cause against your uncle, so that 
you will lose nothing when I am gone. And you will see, in 
my table in the library, that I have left my property in your 

35 hands, with every confidence in your integrity, and ability to 
care for my family, even as I should have done.”’ 

I could not speak at once. A lump rose in my throat, for 


| 


LIBERTY LOSES A FRIEND 465, 


I had come to look upon him as a father. His honest deal- 
ings, his charity, of which the world knew nothing, and his 
plain and unassuming ways had inspired in me a kind of 
worship. I answered, as steadily as I might:— 

“T believe I am too inexperienced for such a responsibility, 5 
Mr. Swain. Would it not be better that Mr. Bordley or Mr. 
Lloyd should act?” 

“No, no,” he said; “I am not a man to do things unad- 
visedly, or to let affection get the better of my judgment, 
where others dear to me are concerned. I know you, Richard 10 
Carvel. Scarce an action of yours has escaped my eye, though 
[have said nothing. You have been through the fire, and are 
of the kind which comes out untouched. You will have Judge 
Bordley’s advice, and Mr. Carroll’s. And they are too busy 
with the affairs of the province to be burdened as my execu- 15 
tors. But,” he added a little more strongly, ‘if what I fear is 
coming, Mr. Bordley will take the trust in your absence. If 
we have war, Richard, you will not be content to remain at 
home, nor would I wish it.” 

I did not reply. 20 

“You will do what I ask?” he said. 

“T would refuse you nothing, Mr. Swain,” I answered. 
But I have heavy misgivings.”’ 

He sighed. “And now, if it were not for Tom, I might die 
content,” he said. 25 
If it were not for Tom! The full burden of the trust be- 

gan to dawn upon me then. Presently I heard him speaking, 
but in so low a voice that I hardly caught the words. 

- “Tn our youth, Richard,” he was saying, “‘the wrath of the 
Almighty is but so many words to most of us. When I was 30 
little more than a lad, I committed a sin of which I tremble 
now to think. And I was the fool to imagine, when I amended 
my life, that God had forgotten. His punishment 1s no 
heavier than I deserve. But He alone knows what He has 
made me suffer.”’ 35 
' I felt that I had no right to be there. 

_ “That is why I have paid Tom’s debts,” he continued; “I 


iM 


466 RICHARD CARVEL 


cannot cast off my son. I have reasoned, implored, and ap 
pealed in vain. He is like Reuben,—his resolutions melt 7 
an hour. And I have pondered day and night what is to b 
done for him.” 

s “Is he to have his portion?” I asked. Indeed, the though: 
of the responsibility of Tom Swain overwhelmed me. 

“Yes, he is to have it,”’ cried Mr. Swain, with a violence tc 
bring on a fit of coughing. ‘Were I to leave it in trust for ; 
time, he would have it mortgaged within a year. He is te 

xo have his portion, but not a penny additional.” 

He lay for a long time breathing deeply, I watching him 
Then, as he reached out and took my hand, I knew by some 
instinct what was to come. I summoned all my self-commanc 
to meet his eye. I knew that the malicious and unthinking 

15 gossip of the town had reached him, and that he had receivec 
it in the simple faith of his hopes. 
“One thing more, my lad,” he said, “the dearest wish o} 
all—that you will marry Patty. She is a good girl, Richard 
And I have thought,” he added with hesitation, “I have 
20 thought that she loves you, though her lips have never openec 
on that subject.” 

So the blow fell. I turned away, for to save my life the 
words would not come. He missed the reason of my silence 

“Tunderstand and honour your scruples,” he went on. His 

25 kindness was like a knife. 

“No, I have had none, Mr. Swain,” I exclaimed. For ] 
would not be thought a hypocrite. 

There I stopped. A light step sounded in the hall, and 
Patty came in upon us. Her colour at once betrayed her 

3o understanding. To my infinite relief her father dropped my 
fingers, and asked cheerily if there was any news from the 
town meeting. | 

On the following Wednesday, with her flag flying and her 
sails set, the Peggy Stewart was run ashore on Windmill 

35 Point. She rose, a sacrifice to Liberty, in smoke to heaven, 
before the assembled patriots of our city. 

That very night a dear friend to Liberty passed away. He 


LIBERTY LOSES A FRIEND 467 


failed so suddenly that Patty had no time to call for aid, 
and when the mother had been carried in, his spirit was 
flown. We laid him high on the hill above the creek, in 
the new lot he had bought and fenced around. The stone re- 
mains:— 5 


HERE LIETH 
HENRY SWAIN, BarrisTER. 
Born May 13, 1730 (O.S.); 
Diep OcToBER I9, 1774. 
Fidus Amicis atque Patrie. 10 


The simple inscription, which speaks volumes to those who 
knew him, was cut after the Revolution. He was buried with 
the honours of a statesman, which he would have been had 
God spared him to serve the New Country which was born so 
soon after his death. ; 15 


COAPLERET 


FAREWELL TO GORDON’S 


I cannot bear to recall my misery of mind after Mr. 
Swain’s death. One hope had lightened all the years of my 
servitude. For, when I examined my soul, I knew that it was 
for Dorothy I had laboured. And every letter that came 

5 from Comyn telling me she was still free gave me new heart 
for my work. By some mystic communion—I know not what 
—I felt that she loved me yet, and despite distance and de- 
gree. I would wake of a morning with the knowledge of 
it, and be silent for half the day with some particle of a dream 

xo in my head, lingering like the burden of a song with its train 
of memories. 

So, in the days that followed, I scarce knew myself. For 
a while (I shame to write it) I avoided that sweet woman who 
had made my comfort her care, whose father had taken me 

15 when I was homeless. The good in me cried out, but the flesh 
rebelled. 

Poor Patty! Her grief for her father was pathetic to see. 
Weeks passed in which she scarcely spoke a word. And I 
remember her as she sat in church Sundays, the whiteness of 

20 her face enhanced by the crape she wore, and a piteous appeal 
in her gray eyes. My own agony was nigh beyond endurance, 
my will swinging like a pendulum from right to wrong, and 
back again. Argue as I might that I had made the barrister 
no promise, conscience allowed no difference. I was in de- 

25 Spair at the trick fate had played me; at the decree that of all 
women I must love her whose sphere was now so far removed 
from mine. For Patty had character and beauty, and every 
gift which goes to make man’s happiness and to kindle his 
affections. 


468 


FAREWELL TO GORDON’S 469 


Her sorrow left her more womanly than ever. And after 
the first sharp sting of it was deadened, I noticed a marked 
reserve in her intercourse with me. I knew then that she 
must have strong suspicions of her father’s request. Speak I 
could not soon after the sad event, but I strove hard that she s 
should see no change in my conduct. 

Before Christmas we went to the Eastern Shore. In An- 
napolis fife and drum had taken the place of fiddle and 
clarion; militia companies were drilling in the empty streets; 
despatches were arriving daily from the North; and grave xo 
gentlemen were hurrying to meetings. But if the war was 
to come, I must settle what was to be done at Gordon’s Pride 
with all possible speed. It was only a few days after our going 
there, that I rode into Oxford with a black cockade in my hat 
Patty had made me, and the army sword Captain Jack had 15 
given Captain Daniel at my side. For I had been elected a 
lieutenant in the Oxford company, of which Percy Singleton 
was captain. 

So passed that winter, the darkest of my life. One soft 
spring day, when the birds were twittering amid new-born zo 
leaves, and the hyacinths and tulips in Patty’s garden were 
coming to their glory, Master Tom rode leisurely down the 
drive at Gordon’s Pride. That was a Saturday, the 29th of 
April, 1775. The news which had flown southward, night 
and day alike, was in no hurry to run off his tongue; he had 2; 
been lolling on the porch for half an hour before he told us 
of the bloodshed between the minutemen of Massachusetts 
and the British regulars, of the rout of Percy’s panting red- 
coats from Concord to Boston. ‘Tom added, with the brutal 
nonchalance which characterized his dealings with his mother 30 
and sister, that he was on his way to Philadelphia to join a 
company. 

The poor invalid was carried up the stairs in a faint by 
Banks and Romney. Patty, with pale face and lips com- 
pressed, ran to fetch the hartshorn. But Master ‘Tom re- 3s 
mained undisturbed. 

“I suppose you are going, Richard,”’ he remarked affably. 


470 RICHARD CARVEL 


For he treated me with more consideration than his family. 
“We shall ride together,” said he. 

“We ride different ways, and to different destinations,” | 

replied dryly. “I go to serve my country, and you to fight 
5 against it.” 

“T think the King is right,”’ he answered sullenly. 

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” I remarked, and rose. “Then 
you have studied the question since last I saw you.” 

“No, by G—d!” he cried, “and I never will. I do not 

10 want to know your d—d principles—or grievances, or what- 
ever they are. We were living an easy life, in the plenty of 
money, and nothing to complain of. You take it all away, 
with your cursed cant—” ° 

I left him railing and swearing. And that was the last I 

15 saw of Tom Swain. When I returned from a final survey of 
the plantation, and a talk with Percy Singleton, he had ridden 
North again. 

I found Patty alone in the parlour. Her work (one of my 
own stockings she was darning) lay idle in her lap, and in 

20 her eyes were the unshed tears which are the greatest suffering 
of women. I sat down beside her and called her name. She 
did not seem to hear me. 

“Patty!” 

She started. And my courage ebbed. 

25 “Are you going to the war—to leave us, Richard?” she 
faltered. 

“T fear there is no choice, Patty,”’ I answered, striving hard 
to keep my own voice steady. ‘But you will be well looked 
after. Ivie Rawlinson is to be trusted, and Mr. Bordley has 

30 promised to keep an eye upon you.”’ 

She took up the darning mechanically. 

“T shall not speak a word to keep you, Richard. He would 
have wished it,” she said softly. “And every strong arm in 
the colonies will be needed. We shall think of you, and pray 

35 for you daily.” 

I cast about for a cheerful reply. 

“T think when they discover how determined we are, they 


FAREWELL TO GORDON’S 471 


will revoke their measures in a hurry. Before you know it, 
Patty, I shall be back again making the rounds in my broad 
rim, and reading to you out of Captain Cook.” 

It was a pitiful attempt. She shook her head sadly. The 
tears were come now, and she was smiling through them. 5 
The sorrow of that smile! 

“T have something to say to you before I go, Patty,”’ I said. 
The words stuck. I knew that there must be no pretence in 
that speech. It must be true as my life after, the consequence 
of it. “I have something to ask you, and I do not speak 10 
without your father’s consent. Patty, if I return, will you 
be my wife?” 

The stocking slipped unheeded to the floor. For a moment 
she sat transfixed, save for the tumultuous swelling of her 


_ breast. Then she turned, and gazed earnestly into my face, 15 


and the honesty of her eyes smote me. For the first time I 
could not meet them honestly with my own. 

“Richard, do you love me?” she asked. 

I bowed my head. I could not answer that. And for a 
while there was no sound save that of the singing of the frogs 20 
in the distant marsh. 

Presently I knew that she was standing at my side. I felt 
her hand laid upon my shoulder. 

““Is—is it Dorothy?” she said gently. 

Still I could not answer. Truly, the bitterness of life, as 25 
the joy of it, is distilled in strong drops. 

“I knew,” she continued, “I have known ever since that 
autumn morning when I went to you as you saddled—when 
I dreaded that you would leave us. Father asked you to 
marry me, the day you took Mr. Stewart from the mob. How 30 
could you so have misunderstood me, Richard?” 

I looked up in wonder. The sweet cadence in her tone 
sprang from a purity not of this earth. They alone who 
have consecrated their days to others may utter it. And the 
light upon her face was of the same source. It was no will 35 
of mine brought me to my feet. But I was not worthy to 
touch her. 


472 RICHARD CARVEL 


“T shall make another prayer, beside that for your safety, 
Richard,”’ she said. 


In the morning she waved me a brave farewell from the 

block where she had stood so often as I rode afield, when the 

s dawn was in the sky. The invalid mother sat in her chair 
within the door; the servants were gathered on the lawn, and 
Ivie Rawlinson and Banks lingered where they had held my 
stirrup. [hat picture is washed with my own tears. 

The earth was praising God that Sunday as I rode to Mr. 

1o Bordley’s. And as it is sorrow which lifts us nearest to 
heaven, I felt as if I were in church. 

I arrrved at Wye Island in season to dine with the good 
judge and his family, and there I made over to his charge the 
property of Patty and her mother. The afternoon we spent 

rg in sober talk, Mr. Bordley giving me much sound advice, and 
writing me several letters of recommendation to gentlemen in 
Congress. His conduct was distinguished by even more of 
kindness and consideration than he had been wont to show me. 

In the evening I walked out alone, skirting the acres of 

20 Carvel Hall, each familiar landmark touching the quick of 
some memory of other days. Childhood habit drew me into 
the path to Wilmot House. I came upon it just as the sun- 
light was stretching level across the Chesapeake, and burning 
its windows molten red. I had been sitting long on the stone 

25 steps, when the gaunt figure of McAndrews strode toward me 
out of the dusk. 

“God be gude to us, it is Mr. Richard!” he cried. “I hae 
na seen ye’re bonny face these muckle years, sir, syne ye cam’ 
back frae ae sight o’ the young mistress.” (I had met him in 

30 Annapolis then.) ‘An’ will ye be aff to the wars?” 

I told him yes. That I had come for a last look at the old 
place before I left. : ‘ 

He sighed. ‘“Ye’re vera welcome, sir.”” Then he added: 
“Mr. Bordley’s gi’en me a fair notion o’ yere management at 

3s Gordon’s. The judge is thinking there'll be nane ither lad 
t’ haud a candle to ye.” 


FAREWELL TO GORDON’S 473 


“And what news do you hear from London?” I asked, cut- 
ting him short. 

“Ill uncos, sir,” he answered, shaking his head with vio- 
lence. He had indeed but a sorry tale for my ear, and one to 
make my heart heavier than it was. McAndrews opened his 
mind to me, and seemed the better for it. How Mr. Marma- 
duke was living with the establishment they wrote of was 
more than the honest Scotchman could imagine. There was 
a country place in Sussex now, said he, that was the latest. 
And drafts were coming in before the wheat was in the ear; 
and the plantations of tobacco on the Western Shore had been 
idle since the non-exportation, and were mortgaged to their 
limit to Mr. Willard. Money was even loaned on the Wilmot 
House estate. McAndrews had a shrewd suspicion that 
neither Mrs. Manners nor Miss Dorothy knew aught of this 
_ state of affairs. 

“Mr. Richard,” he said earnestly, as he bade me good-by, 
“IT kennt Mr. Manners’s mind when he lea’d here. There was 
a laird in’t, sir, an’ a fortune. An’ unless these come soon, 
I’m thinking I can spae th’ en’.”’ 

In truth, a much greater fool than McAndrews might have 
predicted that end. 

On Monday Judge Bordley accompanied me as far as Ding- 
ley’s tavern, and showed much emotion at parting. 


5 


Io 


TS 


20 


“You need have no fears for your friends at Gordon’s 25 


Pride, Richard,”’ said he. “‘And when the General comes 
back, I shall try to give him a good account of my steward- 
ship.” 

The General! That title brought old Stanwix’s cobwebbed 


rophecy into my head again. Here, surely, was the war3o 


which he had foretold, and I ready to embark in it. 
Why not the sea, indeed? 


CHAPTER. ht 


HOW AN IDLE PROPHECY CAME TO PASS 


CaPTAIN CLAPSADDLE not being at his lodgings, I rode on 
to the Coffee House to put up my horse. I was stopped by 
Mr. Claude. 

“Why, Mr. Carvel,” says he, “I thought you on the Eastern 

5 Shore. There is a gentleman within will be mightily tickled 
to see you, or else his protestations are lies, which they may 
very well be. His name? Now, ’pon my faith, it was Jones 
—no more.” 

This thing of being called for at the Coffee House stirred 

ro up unpleasant associations. 

“What appearance does the man make?” I demanded. 

“Merciful gad!” mine host exclaimed; ‘‘once seen, never 
forgotten, and once heard, never forgotten. He quotes me 
Thomson, and he tells me of his estate in Virginia.” 

ts Lhe answer was not of a sort to allay my suspicions. 

“Then he appears to be a landowner?” said I. 

*’Ods! Blest if I know what he is,” says Mr. Claude. “He 
may be anything, an impostor or a high-mightiness. But 
he’s something to strike the eye and hold it, for all his 

20 Quaker clothes. He is swarth and thickset, and some five 
feet eight inches—full six inches under your own height. 
And he comes asking for you as if you owned the town 
between you. ‘Send a fellow to Marlboro’ Street for Mr. 
Richard Carvel, my good host!’ says he, with a snap of his 

2s fingers. And when I tell him the news of you, he is pro- 
digiously affected, and cries—but here’s my gentleman 
now!” 

I jerked my head around. Coming down the steps I beheld 
my old friend and benefactor, Captain John Paul! ~ 


474 


HOW A PROPHECY CAME TO PASS — 475 


“Ahoy, ahoy!” cries he. “Now Heaven be praised, I have 
found you at last.” 

Out of the saddle I leaped, and straight into his arms. 
“Hold, hold, Richard!’ he gasped. ‘My ribs, man! Leave 
me some breath that I may tell you how glad I am to see you.”’ 5 
“Mr. Jones!’ I said, holding him out, “now where the 

devil got you that?” 

“Why, I am become a gentleman since I saw you,” he an- 
swered, smiling. “My poor brother left me his estate in Vir- 
ginia. And a gentleman must have three names at the least.” 10 

I dropped his shoulders and shook with laughter. 

“But Jones!” I cried. “’Ad’s heart! could you go no 
higher? Has your imagination left you, captain?”’ 

“Republican simplicity, sir,”’ says he, looking a trifle hurt. 
But I laughed the more. I5 

“Well, you have contrived to mix oil and vinegar,” said I. 
“A landed gentleman and republican simplicity. [ll warrant 
you wear silk-knit under that gray homespun, and have a 
cameo in your pocket.” 

He shook his head, looking up at me with affection. 20 

“You might have guessed better,” he answered. “All of 
quality I have about me are an enamelled repeater and a gold 
brooch.” 

This made me suddenly grave, for McAndrews’s words had 
been ringing in my ears ever since he had spoken them. [25 
hitched my arm into the captain’s and pulled him toward the 
Coffee House door. 

“Come,” I said, “you have not dined, and neither have I. 
We shall be merry to-day, and you shall have some of the best 
Madeira in the colonies.”’ I commanded a room, that we 30 
might have privacy. As he took his seat opposite me I marked 
that he had grown heavier and more browned. But his eye 
had the same unfathomable mystery in it as of yore. And 
first I upbraided him for not having writ me. 

“T took you for one who glories in correspondence, captain,’’ 35 
said I; “and I did not think you could be so unfaithful. | 
_ directed twice to you in Mr. Orchardson’s care.” 


476 RICHARD CARVEL 


“Orchardson died before I had made one voyage,’ he re- 
plied, “‘and the Betsy changed owners. But I did not forget 
you, Richard, and was resolved but now not to leave Maryland 
until I had seen you. But I burn to hear of you,” he added. 

s ‘I have had an inkling of your story from the landlord. So 
your grandfather is dead, and that Ddlastie, your uncle, of 
whom you told me on the John, is in possession.” 

He listened to my narrative keenly, but with many inter- 
ruptions. And when I was done, he sighed. 

ro * You are always finding friends, Richard,” said he; ‘‘no 
matter what your misfortunes, they are ever double dis- 
counted. As for me, I am like Fulmer in Mr. Cumberland’s 
West Indian: ‘1 have beat through every quarter of the com- 
pass; I have bellowed for freedom; I have offered to serve 

1s my country; I have’—I am engaging to betray it. No, Scot- 
land is no longer my country, and so I cannot betray her. 
It is she who has betrayed me.” 

He fell into a short mood of dejection. And, indeed, I 
could not but reflect that much of the character fitted him 

20 like a jacket. Not the betrayal of his country. He never did 
that, no matter how roundly they accused him of it afterward. 

To lift him, I cried:— 

“You were one of my first friends, Captain Paul” (I could 
not stomach the Jones); “but for you I should now be a 

2s West Indian, and a miserable one, the slave of some unmer- 
ciful hidalgo. Here’s that I may live to repay you!” 

“And while we are upon toasts,” says he, bracing immedi- 
ately, “I give you the immortal Miss Manners! Her beauty © 
has dwelt unfaded in my memory since I last beheld her, 

30 aboard the Betsy.’’ Remarking the pain in my face, he added, 
with a concern which may have been comical: “And she is 
not married?”’ 

“Unless she is lately gone to Gretna, she is not,”’ I replied, 
trying to speak lightly. 

35 ‘Alack! I knew it,” he exclaimed. ‘And if there’s any | 
prophecy in my bones, she’ll be Mrs. Carvel one of these 
days.” 


HOW A PROPHECY CAME TO PASS 477 


“Well, captain,” I said abruptly, “the wheel has gone 
around since I saw you. Now it is you who are the gentle- 
man, while I am a factor. Is it the bliss you pictured?” 

I suspected that his acres were not as broad, nor his produce 
as salable, as those of Mount Vernon. 5 
“To speak truth, I am heartily tired of that life,” said he. 

“There is little glory in raising nicotia, and sipping bumbo, 
and cursing negroes. Ho for the sea!’”’ he cried. “The salt 
sea, and the British prizes. Give me a tight frigate that 
leaves a singing wake. Mark me, Richard,” he said, a rest- 10 
less gleam coming into his dark eyes, “‘stirring times are 
here, and a chance for all of us to make a name.” For so it 
seemed ever to be with him. 

“They are black times, I fear,” I answered. 

“Black!” he said. “No, glorious is your word. And wers 
are to have an upheaval to throw many of us to the top.” 

“T would rather the quarrel were peacefully settled,” said 
I, gravely. “For my part, I want no distinction that is to 
‘come out of strife and misery.” 

He regarded me quizzically. 30 
“You are grown an hundred years old since I pulled you 
out of the sea,” says he. ‘But we shall have to fight for our + 

liberties. Here is a glass to the prospect!” 

“And so you are now an American?” I said curiously. 

“Ay, strake and keelson,—as good a one as though I had 25 
got my sap in the Maine forests. A plague of monarchs, say 
I. They are a blotch upon modern civilization. And I have 
_here,”’ he continued, tapping his pocket, ‘‘some letters writ to 
the Virginia printers, signed Demosthenes, which Mr. Ran- 
dolph and Mr. Henry have commended. To speak truth, 30 
Richard, I am off to Congress with a portmanteau full of 
recommendations. And I was resolved to stop here even till 
I secured your company. We shall sweep the seas together, 
and so let George beware!” 

I smiled. But my blood ran faster at the thought of sail- 35 
ing under such a captain. However, I made the remark that 
Congress had as yet no army, let alone a navy. 


Bey Se 


478 RICHARD CARVEL 


“And think you that gentlemen of such spirit and resources 
will lack either for long?” he demanded, his eye floating. 

“Then I know nothing of a ship save the little I learned on 
the John,” I said. 

s ‘‘You were born for the sea, Richard,” he exclaimed, rais- 
ing his glass high. “And I would rather have one of your 
brains and strength and handiness than any merchant’s mate 
I ever sailed with. The more gentlemen get commissions, 
the better will be our new service.” 

ro At that instant came a knock at the door, and one of the 
inn negroes to say that Captain Clapsaddle was below, and 
desired to see me. I persuaded John Paul to descend with 
me. We found Captain Daniel seated with Mr. Carroll, the 
barrister, and Mr. Chase. . 

1s “Captain,” I said to my old friend, “I have a rare joy this 
day in making known to you Mr. John Paul Jones, of whom 
I have spoken to you a score of times. He it is whose bravery 
sank the Black Moll, whose charity took me to London, and 
who got no other reward for his faith than three weeks in a 

20 debtors’ prison. For his honour, as I have told you, would 
allow him to accept none, nor his principles to take the com- 
mission in the Royal Navy which Mr. Fox offered him.” 

Captain Daniel rose, his honest face flushing with pleasure. 

“Faith, Mr. Jones,” he cried, when John Paul had finished 

25 one of his elaborate bows, “this is well met, indeed. I have 
been longing these many years for a chance to press your 
hand, and in the names of those who are dead and gone to 
express my gratitude.”’ 

“T have my reward now, captain,”’ replied John Paul; “a 

30 sight of you is to have Richard’s whole life revealed. And 

what says Mr. Congreve?— 


“ “For blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds, 
And tho’ a late, a sure reward succeeds.’ 


Tho’ I would not have you believe that my deed was virtuous. 
3s And you, who know Richard, may form some notion of the 
pleasure [ had out of his companionship.” ‘ 


HOW A PROPHECY CAME TO PASS 479 


I hastened to present my friend to the other gentlemen, who 
welcomed him with warmth, though they could not keep their. 
amusement wholly out of their faces. 

“Mr. Jones is now the possessor of an estate in Virginia, 
sirs,”’ I explained. 

“And do you find it more to your taste than seafaring, Mr. 
Jones?” inquired Mr. Chase. 

This brought forth a most vehement protest, and another 
quotation. 


“Why, sir,” he cried, “to be = 


“ “Fixed like a plant on his peculiar spot, 
To draw nutrition, propagate, and rot,’ 


is an animal’s existence. I have thrown it over, sir, with a 
right good will, and am now on my way to Philadelphia to 
obtain a commission in the navy soon to be born.” 15 

Mr. Chase smiled. John Paul little suspected that he was 
a member of the Congress. 

“This is news indeed, Mr. Jones,” he said. “I have yet to 
hear of the birth of this infant navy, for which we have not 
yet begun to make swaddling clothes.” 20 

“We are not yet an infant state, sir,” Mr. Carroll put in, 
with a shade of rebuke. For Maryland was well content with 
the government she had enjoyed, and her best patriots long 
after shunned the length of secession. “I believe and pray 
that the King will come to his senses. And as for the navy, it is 25 
folly. How can we hope to compete with England on the sea?” 

“All great things must have a beginning, sir,” replied John 
Paul, launching forth at once, nothing daunted by such cold 
conservatism. “What Israelite brickmaker of Pharaoh’s 
dreamed of Solomon’s temple? Nay, Moses himself had no 30 
conception of it. And God will send us our pillars of cloud 
and of fire. We must be reconciled to our great destiny, Mr. 
Carroll. No fight ever was won by man or nation content 
with half a victory. We have forests to build an hundred 
armadas, and I will command a fleet and it is given me.’’ 35 
_ The gentlemen listened in astonishment. 


480 RICHARD CARVEL 


“T’ faith, I believe you, sir,”’ cried Captain Daniel, with 
admiration. 

The others, too, were somehow fallen under the spell of this 
remarkable individuality. ‘What plan would you pursue, 

s sir?’ asked Mr. Chase, betraying more interest than he cared 
to show. 

“What plan, sir!”’ said Captain John Paul, those wonderful 
eyes of his alight. “‘In the first place, we Americans build 
the fastest ships in the world,—yours of the Chesapeake are 

10 as fleet as any. Here, if | am not mistaken, one hundred and 
eighty-two were built in the year ’71. They are idle now. 
To them I would issue letters of marque, to harry England’s 
trade. From Carolina to Maine we have the wood and iron to 
build cruisers, in harbours that may not easily be got at. And 

15 Skilled masters and seamen to elude the enemy.”’ 

“But a navy must be organized, sir. It must be an unit,” 
objected Mr. Carroll. “And you would not for many years 
have force enough, or discipline enough, to meet England’s 
navy.” | 

20 “I would never meet it, sir,”’ he replied instantly. “That 
would be the height of folly. I would divide our forces into 
small, swift-sailing squadrons, of strength sufficient to repel 
his cruisers. And I would carry the war straight into his 
unprotected ports of trade. I can name a score of such 

25 Gefenceless places, and I know every shoal of their harbours. 
For example, Whitehaven might be entered. That is a town 
of fifty thousand inhabitants. The fleet of merchantmen 
might with the greatest ease be destroyed, a contribution 
levied, and Ireland’s coal cut off for a winter. The whole 

30 of the shipping might be swept out of the Clyde. Newcastle 
is another likely place, and in almost any of the Irish ports 
valuable vessels may be found. The Baltic and West Indian 
fleets are to be intercepted. I have reflected upon these mat- 
ters for years, gentlemen. They are perfectly feasible. And 

35 ll warrant you cannot conceive the havoc and consternation 
their fulfilment would spread in England.” : 

If the divine power of genius ever made itself felt, ’twa 


cy 


HOW A PROPHECY CAME TO PASS 481 


on that May evening, at candle-light, in the Annapolis Coffee 
House. With my own eyes I witnessed two able and cautious 
statesmen of a cautious province thrilled to the pitch of en- 
thusiasm by this strange young man of eight and twenty. As 
for good Captain Daniel, enthusiasm is but a poor word. to 5 
express his feelings. A map was sent for and spread out upon 
the table. And it was a late hour when Mr. Chase and Mr. 
Carroll went home, profoundly impressed. Mr. Chase charged 
John Paul look him up in Congress. 

The next morning | bade Captain Daniel a solemn good-by, zo 
and rode away with John Paul to Baltimore. ‘Thence we took 
stage to New Castle on the Delaware, and were eventually 
landed by Mr. Tatlow’s stage-boat at Crooked Billet wharf, 
Philadelphia. 


‘A BRIEF SUMMARY, WHICH BRINGS THIS BIOGRAPHY TO 15 
THE FAMOUS FIGHT OF THE BON HOMME RICHARD 
AND THE SERAPIS 


By DanteL CLAPSADDLE CARVEL 


Mr. Ricuarp CarVEL refers here to the narrative of his experiences 
in the War of the Revolution, which he had written in the year 1805 20 
or 1806. The insertion of that account would swell this book, already 
too long, out of all proportion. Hence I take it upon myself, with 
apologies to compress it. 

Not until October of that year, 1775, was the infant navy born. 
Mr. Carvel was occupied in the interval in the acquirement of prac- 25 
tical seamanship and the theory of maritime warfare under the most 
competent of instructors, John Paul Jones. An interesting side light 

is thrown upon the character of that hero by the fact that, with all 
his supreme confidence in his ability, he applied to Congress only for 

a first lieutenancy. This was in deference to the older men before 3° 
that body. “I hoped,” said he, “in that rank to gain much useful 
knowledge from those of more experience than myself.” His lack 
of assertion for once cost him dear. He sailed on the New Provi- 
dence expedition under Commodore Hopkins as first lieutenant of the 
Alfred, thirty; and he soon discovered that, instead of gaining 1n- 35 
formation, he was obliged to inform others. He trained the men so 
ae in the use of the great guns “that they went through 





482 RICHARD CARVEL 


the motions of broadsides and rounds exactly as soldiers generally 
perform the manual exercise.” 

Captain Jones was not long in fixing the attention and earning 
the gratitude of the nation, and of its Commander-in-Chief, General 

5 Washington. While in command of the Providence, twelve four- 
pounders, his successful elusions of the Cerberus, which hounded 
him, and his escape from the Solebay, are too famous to be dwelt 
upon here. Obtaining the Alfred, he captured and brought into 
Boston ten thousand suits of uniform for Washington’s shivering 

roarmy. Then, by the bungling of Congress, thirteen officers were 
promoted over his head. The bitterness this act engendered in the 
soul of one whose thirst for distinction was as great as Captain 
Jones’s may be imagined. To his everlasting credit be it recorded 
that he remained true to the country to which he had dedicated his 

tslife and his talents. And it was not until 1781 that he got the 
justice due him. 

That the rough and bluff captains of the American service should 
have regarded a man of Paul Jones’s type with suspicion is not 
surprising. They resented his polish and accomplishments, and could 

2onot understand his language. Perhaps it was for this reason, as 
well as a reward for his brilliant services, that he was always given 
a separate command. In the summer of 1777 he was singled out for 
the highest gift in the power of the United States, nothing less than. 
that of the magnificent frigate Indien, then building at Amsterdam. 

25 And he was ordered to France in command of the Ranger, a new 
ship then fitting at Portsmouth. Captain Jones was the admiration 
of all the young officers in the navy, and was immediately flooded 
with requests to sail with him. One of his first acts, after receiving 
his command, was to apply to the Marine Committee for Mr. Carvel. 

30 The favour was granted. 

My grandfather had earned much commendation from his superiors. 
He had sailed two cruises as master’s mate of the Cabot, and was 
then serving as master of the Trumbull, Captain Saltonstall. This 
was shortly after that frigate had captured the two British trans- 

35 ports off New York. 

Captain Jones has been at pains to mention in his letters the. 
services rendered him by Mr. Carvel in fitting out the Ranger. And 
my grandfather gives a striking picture of the captain. At that 
time the privateers, with the larger inducements of profit they 

40 offered, were getting all the best seamen. John Paul had but to— 
take two turns with a man across the dock, and he would sign 
papers. 







HOW A PROPHECY CAME TO PASS 483 


Captain Jones was the first to raise the new flag of the stars and 
stripes over a man-o’-war. They got away on November 14, 1777, 
with a fair crew and a poor lot of officers. Mr. Carvel had many 
a brush with the mutinous first lieutenant Simpson. Family influ- 
jence deterred the captain from placing this man under arrest, and 5 
even Dr. Franklin found trouble, some years after, in bringing about 
| his dismissal from the service. To add to the troubles, the Ranger 
;proved crank and slow-sailing; and she had only one barrel of rum 
vaboard, which made the men discontented. 

} Bringing the official news of Burgoyne’s surrender, which was 10 
jto cause King Louis to acknowledge the independence of the United 

| States, the Ranger arrived at Nantes, December 2. Mr. Carvel accom- 
|panied Captain Jones to Paris, where a serious blow awaited him. 
The American Commissioners informed him that the /ndien had been 
‘transferred to France to prevent her confiscation. That winter John 15 
|Paul spent striving in vain for a better ship, and imbibing tactics 
‘from the French admirals. Incidentally, he obtained a salute for 
ithe American flag. The cruise of the Ranger in English waters the 
following spring was a striking fulfilment, with an absurdly poor 
and inadequate force, of the plan set forth by John Paul Jones in 20 
ithe Annapolis Coffee House. His descent upon Whitehaven spread 
terror and consternation broadcast through England, and he was 
|branded as a pirate and a traitor. Mr. Carvel was fortunately not 
of the landing party on St. Mary’s Isle, which place he had last 
beheld in John Paul’s company, on the brigantine John, when enter- 25 
ing Kirkcudbright. The object of that expedition, as is well known, 
was to obtain the person of the Earl of Selkirk, in order to bring 
about the- rescue of the unfortunate Americans suffering in British 
prisons. After the celebrated capture of the sloop-of-war Drake, 
‘Paul Jones returned to France a hero. 30 
If Captain Jones was ambitious of personal glory, he may never, 
at least, be accused of mercenary motives. The ragged crew of the 
|Ranger was paid in part out of his own pocket, and for a whole 
month he supported the Drake’s officers and men, no provision hav- 
ing been made for prisoners. He was at large expense in fitting out 35 
the Ranger, and he bought back at twice what it was worth 
the plate taken from St. Mary’s Isle, getting but a tardy recog- 
nition from the Earl of Selkirk for such a noble and unheard-of 
action. And, I take pride in writing it, Mr. Carvel spent much 
of what he had earned at Gordon’s Pride in a like honourable 4° 
manner. ; 

Mr. Carvel’s description of the hero’s reception at Versailles is 





484 RICHARD CARVEL 
graphic and very humorous. For all his republican principles John 
Paul never got over his love of courts, and no man was ever a more. 
thorough courtier. He exchanged compliments with Queen Marie 

Antoinette, who was then in the bloom of her beauty, and declared 
5 that “she was a good girl, and deserved to be happy.” 

The unruly Simpson sailed for America in the Ranger in July, 
Captain Jones being retained in France “for a particular enter- 
prise.” And through the kindness of Dr. Franklin, Mr. Carvel re- 
mained with him. Then followed another period of heartrending 

ro disappointment. The fine ship the French government promised him 
was not forthcoming, though Captain Jones wrote a volume of beauti- 
ful letters to every one of importance, from her Royal Highness the 
Duchess of Chartres to his Most Christian Majesty, Louis, King of 
France and Navarre. At length, when he was sitting one day in un- 

rs usual dejection and railing at the vanity of courts and kings, Mr. 
Carvel approached him with a book in his hand. 

“What have you there, Richard?” the captain demanded. 

“Dr, Franklin’s Maxims,” replied my grandfather. They were 
great favourites with him. The captain took the book and began 

20 mechanically to turn over the pages. Suddenly he closed it with a 
bang, jumped up, and put on his coat and hat. Mr. Carvel looked 
on in astonishment. 

“Where are you going sir?” says he. 

“To Paris, sir,” says the captain. “Dr. Franklin has taught me 

25 more wisdom in a second than | had in all my life before. ‘If you 
wish to have any business faithfully and expeditiously performed, 
go and doit yourself; otherwise, send.’ ” 

As a result of that trip he got the Duras, which hé renamed the 
Bon Homme Richard in honour of Dr. Franklin. The Duras was an 

30 ancient Indiaman with a high poop, which made my grandfather 
exclaim, when he saw her, at the remarkable fulfilment of old Stan 
wix’s prophecy. She was perfectly rotten, and in the constructor’s 
opinion not worth refitting. Her lowest deck (too low for the pur 
pose) was pierced aft with three ports on a side, and six. worn-out 

35 eighteen-pounders mounted there. Some of them burst in the action, 
killing their people. The main battery, on the deck above, was com- 
posed of twenty-eight twelve-pounders. On the uncovered deck eight 
nine-pounders were mounted. Captain Jones again showed his desire 
to serve the cause by taking such a ship, and not waiting for some: 

4° thing better. | 

In the meantime the American frigate Alliance had brought Lafay- 
ette to France, and was added to the little squadron that was to sail 





HOW A PROPHECY CAME TO PASS 485 


with the Bon Homme Richard. One of the most fatal mistakes Con- 
gress ever made was to put Captain Pierre Landais in command of 
her, out of compliment to the French allies. He was a man whose 
temper and vagaries had failed to get him a command in his own 
navy. His insulting conduct and treachery to Captain Jones are 5 
strongly attested to in Mr. Carvel’s manuscript; they were amply 
proved by the written statements of other officers. 

The squadron sailed from L’Orient in June, but owing to a col- 
lision between the Bon Homme Richard and the Alliance it was 
forced to put back into the Groix roads for repairs. Nails and 10 
rivets were with difficulty got to hold in the sides of the old India- 
man. On August 14th John Paul Jones again set sail for English 
waters, with the following vessels: Alliance, thirty-six; Pallas, 
thirty; Cerf, eighteen; Vengeance, twelve; and two French priva- 
teers. Owing to the humiliating conditions imposed upon him by 
the French Minister of Marine, Commodore Jones did not have ab- 
solute command. In a gale on the 26th the two privateers and the 
Cerf parted company, never to return. After the most outrageous 
conduct off the coast of Ireland, Landais, in the Alliance, left the 
squadron on September 6th, and did not reappear until the 23d, the 20 
day of the battle. 

Mr. Carvel was the third lieutenant of the Bon Homme Richard, 
tho’ he served as second in the action. Her first lieutenant (after- 
wards the celebrated Commodore Richard Dale) was a magnificent 
(man, one worthy in every respect of the captain he served. When 25 
the hour of battle arrived, these two and the sailing master, and a 
number of raw midshipmen, were the only line-officers left, and two 
French officers of marines. The rest had been lost in various ways. 
And the crew of the Bon Homme Richard was as sorry a lot as ever 
trod a deck. Less than threescore of the seamen were American 30 
born; near fourscore were British, inclusive of sixteen Irish; one 
hundred and thirty-seven were French soldiers, who acted as marines; 
and the rest of the three hundred odd souls to fight her were from 
all over the earth,—Malays and Maltese and Portuguese. In the 
hold were more than one hundred and fifty English prisoners. 35 

This was a vessel and a force, truly, with which to conquer a 
fifty-gun ship of the latest type, and with a picked crew. 

Mr. Carvel’s chapter opens with Landais’s sudden reappearance 
on the morning of the day the battle was fought. He shows the 
resentment and anger against the Frenchman felt by all on board, 4° 
from cabin-boy to commodore. But none went so far as to accuse 
Fe captain of the Alliance of such supreme treachery as he was to 


W 


5 


a 
* - 


a 


486 RICHARD CARVEL 


show during the action. Cowardice may have been in part responsi 
ble for his holding aloof from the two duels in which the Richare 
and the Pallas engaged. But the fact that he poured broadside: 
into the Richard, and into her off side, makes it seem probable thai 
5 his motive was to sink the commodore’s ship and so get the credit 
of saving the day, to the detriment of the hero who won it despite 
all disasters. To account for the cry that was raised when first she 
attacked the Richard, it must be borne in mind that the crew of th« 
Alliance was largely composed of Englishmen. It was thought tha: 
ro these had mutinied and taken her, 


CHAPTER LII 


HOW THE GARDENER’S SON FOUGHT THE “‘SERAPIS”’ 


. 
WueEn I came on deck the next morning our yards were 


a-drip with a clammy fog, and under it the sea was roughed 
by a southwest breeze. We were standing to the northward 
before it. I remember reflecting as I paused in the gangway 
that the day was Thursday, September the 23d, and that we 5 
were near two months out of Groix with this tub of an India- 
man. In all that time we had not so much as got a whiff of 
an English frigate, though we had almost put a belt around 
the British Isles. Then straining my eyes through the mist, 

P made out two white blurs of sails on our starboard beam. ro 
Honest Jack Pearce, one of the few good seamen we had 
aboard, was rubbing down one of the nines beside me. 

“Why, Jack,” said I, “what have we there? Another 
prize?” For that question had become a joke on board the 
Bon Homme Richard since the prisoners had reached an hun-ts 
dred and fifty, and half our crew was gone to man the ships. 

“Bless your ’art, no, sir,” said he. “’Tis that damned 
Frenchy Landais in th’ Alliance. She turns up with the 
Pallas at six bells o’ the middle watch.” 

“So he’s back, is her” 20 

“Ay, he’s back,” he returned, with a grunt that was half a 
growl; “arter three weeks breakin’ 0” liberty. I tell ’ee 
what, sir, them Frenchies is treecherous devils, an’ not to be 
trusted the len’th of a lead line. An’ they beant seamen eno’ 
to keep a full an’ by with all their takteek. Ez for that 2s 
Landais, I hearn him whinin’ at the commodore i in the round- 
house when we was off Clear, an’ sayin’ as how he would tell 
Sartin on us when he gets back to Paree. An’ jabberin to th’ 
other Frenchmen as was there that this here buttér-cask was 


| 487 
‘ 
‘ 


488 RICHARD CARVEL 


er King’s ship, an’ that the commodore weren’t no commodore 
nohow. They say as how Cap’n Jones be bound up in a hard 
knot by some articles of agreement, an’ daresn’t punish him. 
Be that so, Mr. Carvel?” 

s I said that it was. 

“Shiver my bulkheads!” cried Jack, “I gave my oath to 
that same, sir. For I knowed the commodore was the lad t” 
string ’em to the yard-arm an’ he had the say on it. Oh, the 
devil take the Frenchies,” said Jack, rolling his quid to show 

ro his pleasure of the topic, ‘‘they sits on their bottoms in Brest 
and L’Oriong an’ talks takieek wi’ their han’s and mouths, 
and daresn’t as much as show the noses o’ their three-deckers 
in th’ Bay o’ Biscay, while Cap’n Jones pokes his bowsprit 
into every port in England with a hulk the rats have left. 

ts ve had my bellyful o’ Frenchies, Mr. Carvel, save it be to 
fight ’°em. An’ I tell ’ee ’twould give me the greatest joy i 
life t’ leave loose Scolding Sairy at that there Landais. Th’ 
gal ain’t had a match on her this here cruise, an’ t’ my mind 
she couldn’t be christened better, sir.” 

20 =| left him patting the gun with a tender affection. 

The scene on board was quiet and peaceful enough that 
morning. A knot of midshipmen on the forecastle were dis- 
cussing Landais’s conduct, and cursing the concordat which 
prevented our commodore from bringing him up short. Mr. 

2s Stacey, the sailing-master, had the deck, and the coasting 
pilot was conning; now and anon the boatswain’s whistle 
piped for Garrett or Quito or Fogg to lay aft to the mast, 
where the first lieutenant stood talking to Colonel de Chamil- 
lard, of the French marines. The scavengers were sweeping 

30 down, and part of the after guard was bending a new bolt- 
rope on a storm staysail. 

Then the fore-topmast crosstrees reports a sail on the 
weather quarter, the Richard is brought around on the wind, 
and away we got after a brigantine, “flying like a snow laden 

35 with English bricks,” as Midshipman Coram jokingly remarks. 
A chase 1s not such a novelty with us that we crane our necks 
to windward. 


Ptihs GOERAPTS?. 489 


At noon, when I relieved Mr. Stacey of the deck, the sun 
had eaten up the fog, and the shores of England stood out 
boldly. Spurn Head was looming up across our bows, while 
that of Flamborough jutted into the sea behind us. I had the 
starboard watch piped to dinner, and reported twelve o’clock 5 
to the commodore. And had just got permission to ‘make 
it,’ according to a time-honoured custom at sea, when another 
“Sail, ho!’ came down from aloft. 

“Where away?” called back Mr. Linthwaite, who was mid- 
shipman of the forecastle. 10 
“Starboard quarter, rounding Flamborough Head, sir. 

Looks like a full-rigged ship, sir.” 

I sent the messenger into the great cabin to report. He 
was barely out of sight before a second cry came from the 
masthead: “Another sail rounding Flamborough, sir!” Is 

The officers on deck hurried to the taffrail. I had my glass, 
but not a dot was visible above the sea-line. The messenger 
was scarcely back again when there came a third hail: ‘‘ Two 
more rounding the head, sir! Four in all, sir!’ 

Here was excitement indeed. Without waiting for instruc- 20 
tions, I gave the command :— 

“Up royal yards! Royal yardmen in the tops!’ 

e were already swaying out of the chains, when Lieuten- 
ant Dale appeared and asked the coasting pilot what fleet it 
was. He answered that it was the Baltic fleet, under convoy 2s 
of the Countess of Scarborough, twenty guns, and the Serapis, 
forty-four. 

“Forty-four,” repeated Mr. Dale, smiling; “that means 
fifty, as English frigates are rated. We shall have our hands 
full this day, my lads,” said he. “You have done well to get 30 
the royals on her, Mr. Carvel.” 

While he was yet speaking, three more sail were reported 
from aloft. Then there was a hush on deck, and the commo- 
dore himself appeared. As he reached the poop we saluted 
him and informed him of what had happened. 35 

“The Baltic fleet,” said he, promptly. “Call away the pilot- 
boat with Mr. Lunt to follow the brigantine, sir, and ease off 


3S 
490 RICHARD CARVEL _ . 


before the wind. Signal ‘General Chase’ to the squadron, 
Mr. Mayrant.” \4 

The men had jumped to the weather braces before I gave 
the command, and all the while more sail were counting from 

5 the crosstrees, until their number had reached forty-one. The 
news spread over the ship; the starboard watch trooped up 
with their dinners half eaten. Then a faint booming of guns 
drifted down upon our ears. 

‘They’ ve got sight of us, sir,” shouted the lookout. “They 

ro be firing guns to windward, an’ letting fly their topgallant 
sheets.” 

At that the commodore hurried forward, the men falling 
back to the bulwarks respectfully, and he mounted the fore- 
rigging as agile as any topman, followed by his aide with a 

1sglass. From the masthead he sung out to me to set our 
stu’nsails, and he remained aloft till near seven bells of the 
watch. At that hour the merchantmen had all scuttled to 
safety behind the head, and from the deck a great yellow 
King’s frigate could be plainly seen standing south to meet 

zo us, followed by her smaller consort. Presently she hove to, 
and through our glasses we discerned a small boat making 
for her side, and then a man clambering up her sea-ladder. 

“That be the bailiff of Scarborough, sir,” said the coasting 
pilot, “come to tell her cap’n ’tis Paul Jones he has to fight.” 

25 At that moment the commodore lay down from aloft, and 
our hearts beat high as he walked swiftly aft to the quarter- 
deck, where he paused for a word with Mr. Dale. Meanwhile 
Mr. Mayrant hove out the signal for the squadron to form 
line of battle. 

30 Recall the pilot-boat, Mr. Carvel,” said the commodore, 
quietly. “Then you may beat to quarters, and I will take the 
ship, sir.” 

“Ay, ay, sir.” [raised my trumpet. “All hands clear ship 
for action!’ 

35 It makes me sigh now to think of the cheer which burst 
from that tatterdemalion crew. Who were they to fight the 
bone and sinew of the King’s navy in a rotten ship of an age 


THE “SERAPIS” 491 


gone by? And who was he, that stood so straight upon the 
quarter-deck, to instil this scum with love and worship and 
fervour to blind them to such odds? But the bo’suns piped 
and sang out the command in fog-horn voices, the drums beat 
the long roll and the fifes whistled, and the decks became sud- 5 
denly alive. Breechings were loosed and gun-tackles un- 
lashed, rammer and sponge laid out, and pike and pistol and 
cutlass placed where they would,be handy when the time came 
to rush the enemy’s decks. The powder-monkeys tumbled 
over each other in their hurry to provide cartridges, and ro 
grape and canister and double-headed shot were hoisted up 
from below.. The trimmers rigged the splinter nettings, got 
out spare spars and blocks and ropes against those that were 
sure to be shot away, and rolled up casks of water to put out 
the fires. Tubs were filled with sand, for blood is slippery 15 
upon the boards. The French marines, their scarlet and white 
very natty in contrast to most of our ragged wharf-rats at 
the guns, were mustered on poop and forecastle, and some 
were sent aloft to the tops to assist the tars there to sweep 
the British decks with hand grenade and musket. And, lastly, 20 
the surgeon and his mates went below to cockpit and steerage, 
to make ready for the grimmest work of all. 

My own duties took me to the dark lower deck, a vile place 
indeed, and reeking with the smell of tar and stale victuals. 
There I had charge of the battery of old eighteens, while Mr. 25 
Dale commanded the twelves on the middle deck. We loaded 
our guns with two shots apiece, though I had my doubts 
about their standing such a charge, and then the men stripped 
until they stood naked to the waist, waiting for the fight to 


begin. For we could see nothing of what was going forward. 30 


I was pacing up and down, for it was a task to quiet the 
nerves in that dingy place with the gun-ports closed, when 
about three bells of the dog, Mr. Mease, the purser, appeared 


on the ladder. 


“Lunt has not come back with the pilot-boat, Carvel,” said 35 


he. “I have voluntered for a battery, and am assigned to this. 
- You are to report to the commodore.” 
p 


pare 


: 


492 RICHARD CARVEL 


I thanked him, and climbed quickly to the quarter-deck. 
The Bon Homme Richard was lumbering like a leaden ship 
before the wind, swaying ponderously, her topsails flapping 
and her heavy blocks whacking against the yards. And there 

5 was the commodore, erect, and with fire in his eye, giving 
sharp commands to the men at the wheel. I knew at once 
that no trifle had disturbed him. He wore a brand-new unt- 
form; a blue coat with red lapels and yellow buttons, and 
slashed cuffs and stand-up collar, a red waistcoat with tawny 

10 lace, blue breeches, white silk stockings, and a cocked hat and 
a sword. Into his belt were stuck two brace of pistols. 

It took some effort to realize, as | waited silently for his 
attention, that this was the man of whose innermost life | 
had had so intimate a view. Who had taken me to the humble 

15 cottage under Criffel, who had poured into my ear his ambi- 
tions and his wrongs when we had sat together in the dingy 
room of the Castle Yard sponging-house. Then some of those 
ludicrous scenes on the road to London came up to me, for 
which the sky-blue frock was responsible. And yet this 

20 commodore was not greatly removed from him I had frst 
beheld on the brigantine John. His confidence in his future 
had not so much as wavered since that day. That future 
was now not so far distant as the horizon, and he was ready 
to meet It. 

25 ‘‘ You will take charge of the battery of nines on this deck, 
Mr. Carvel,” said he, at length. 

“Very good, sir,” I replied, and was making my way down 
the poop ladder, when I heard him calling me, in a low voice, 
by the old name: “ Richard!” 

30 += turned and followed him aft to the taffrail, where we were 
clear of the French soldiers. —The sun was hanging red over 
the Yorkshire Wolds, the Head of Flamborough was in the 
blue shadow, and the clouds were like rose leaves in the sky. 
The enemy had tacked and was standing west, with ensign 

3s and jack and pennant flying, the level light washing his sails 


to the whiteness of paper. *Iwas then I first remarked that _ 


the Alliance had left her place in line and was sailing swiftly 


: 


THe SERAPIS <3 493 


ahead toward the Serapis. The commodore seemed to read 
my exclamation. 

‘“‘Landais means to ruin me yet, by hook or crook,”’ said he. 

“But he can’t intend to close with them,” I replied. “‘He 
has not the courage.” 

““God knows what he intends,” said the commodore, bit- 
terly. “It is no good, at all events.” 

My heart bled for him. Some minutes passed that he did 
not speak, making shift to raise his glass now and again, and 
I knew that he was gripped by a strong emotion. *I'was so 10 
he ever behaved when the stress was greatest. Presently he 
lays down the glass on the signal-chest, fumbles in his coat, 
and brings out the little gold brooch I had not set eyes on 
fae Dolly and he and I had stood together on the Betsy’s 

eck. Is 

“When you see her, Richard, tell her that I have kept it as 
sacred to her memory,” he said thickly. “‘She will recall 
what I spoke of you when she gave it me. You have been 
leal and true to me indeed, and many a black hour have you 
tided me over since this war began. Do you know how she 20 
may be directed to?” he concluded, with abruptness. 

I glanced at him, surprised at the question. He was staring 
at the English shore. 

“Mr. Ripley, of Lincoln’s Inn, used to be Mr. Manners’s 
lawyer,” I answered. 25 
He took out a little notebook and wrote that down carefully. 
“And now,” he continued, “God keep you, my friend. We 

must win, for we fight with a rope around our necks.” 

“But you, Captain Paul,” I said, “‘is—is there no one?” 

His face took on the look of melancholy it had worn so 30 
often of late, despite his triumphs. That look was the stamp 
of fate. 

“Richard,” replied he, with an ineffable sadness, “I am 
naught but a wanderer upon the face of the earth. I have no 
ties, no kindred,—no real friends, save you and Dale, and 35 
some of these honest fellows whom I lead to slaughter. My 
ambition is seamed with a flaw. And all my life I must be 


494, RICHARD CARVEL 


striving, striving, until I am laid in the grave. I know that 
now, and it is you yourself who have taught me. For I have 
violently broken forth from those bounds which God in His 
wisdom did set.” 

s 1 pressed his hand, and with bowed head went back to my 
station, profoundly struck by the truth of what he had spoken. 
Though he fought under the flag of freedom, the curse of the 
expatriated was upon his head. 

Shortly afterward he appeared at the poop rail, straight and 
ro alert, his eye piercing each man as it fell on him. He was 
the commodore once more. 


The twilight deepened, until you scarce could see your 


hands. There was no sound save the cracking of the cabins 
and the tumbling of the blocks, and from time to time a mut- 
rs tered command. An age went by before the trimmers were 
sent to the lee braces, and the Richard rounded lazily to. And 


a great frigate loomed out of the night beside us, half a pistol- 


shot away. , 


“What ship is that?” came the hail, intense out of the 


20 Silence. 
“| don’t hear you,” replied our commodore, for he had not 
yet got his distance. 
Again came the hail: ‘What ship is that?” 
John Paul Jones leaned forward over the rail. 
25 ‘Pass the word below to the first lieutenant to begin the 
action, sir.” 
Hardly were the words out of my mouth before the deck 


gave a mighty leap, a hot wind that seemed half of flame blew 


across my face, and the roar started the pain throbbing in my 
3e ears. At the same instant the screech of shot sounded over- 


head, we heard the sharp crack-crack of wood rending and 
splitting,—as with a great broadaxe,—and a medley of blocks - 


and ropes rattled to the deck with the thud of the falling 


bodies. Then, instead of stillness, moans and shrieks from 5 
35 above and below, oaths and prayers in English and French — 


and Portuguese, and in the heathen gibberish of the East. As — 


the men were sponging and ramming home in the first fury of 


» 


THE “SERAPIS” 495 


hatred, the carpenter jumped out under the battle-lanthorn at 
the main hatch, crying in a wild voice that the old eighteens 
had burst, killing half their crews and blowing up the gun- 
deck above them. At this many of our men broke and ran 
for the hatches. 5 

“Back, back to your quarters! The first man to desert will 
be shot down!” 

It was the same strange voice that had quelled the mutiny 
of the John, that had awed the men of Kirkcudbright. The 
tackles were seized and the guns run out more, and fired, ro 
and served again in an agony of haste. In the darkness shot 
shrieked hither and thither about us like demons, striking 
everywhere, sometimes sending casks of salt water over the 
nettings. Incessantly the quartermaster walked to and fro 
scattering sand over the black pools that kept running, rua- rs; 
ning together as the minutes were tolled out, and the red 
flashes from the guns revealed faces in a hideous contortion. 
One little fellow, with whom I had had many a lively word 
at mess, had his arm taken off at the shoulder as he went 
skipping past me with the charge under his coat, and I have 20 
but to listen now to hear the patter of the blood on the boards 
as they carried him away to the cockpit below. Out of the 
~ main hatch, from that charnel house, rose one continuous cry. 
It was an odd trick of the mind or soul that put a hymn 
on my lips in that dreadful hour of carnage and human mis- 25 
ery, when men were calling the name of their Maker in vain. 
But as I ran from crew to crew, I sang over and over again 
a long-forgotten Christmas carol, and with it came a fleeting 
memory of my mother on the stairs at Carvel Hall, and of the 
negroes gathered on the lawn without. 30 
_ Suddenly, glancing up at the dim cloud of sails above, I 
saw that we were aback and making sternway. We might 
have tossed a biscuit aboard the big Serapis as she glided 
ahead of us. The broadsides thundered, and great ragged 
scantlings brake from our bulwarks and flew as high as the 35 
mizzen-top; and the shrieks and groans redoubled. Involun- 

_ tarily my eyes sought the poop, and I gave a sigh of relief at 


496 RICHARD CARVEL 


the sight of the commanding figure in the midst of the whirl- 
ing smoke. We shotted our guns with double-headed, manned 
our lee braces, and gathered headway. 

“ Stand by to board!” 

s The boatswain’s whistles thrilled through the ship, pikes 
were seized, and pistol and cutlass buckled on. But even as 
we waited with set teeth, our bows ground into the enemy’s 
weather quarter-gallery. For the Richarda’s rigging was much ~ 
cut away, and she was crank at best. So we backed and filled 

ro once more, passing the Englishman close aboard, himself being 
aback at the time. Several of his shot crushed through the 
bulwarks in front of me, shattering a nine-pounder and killing 
half of its crew. And it is only a miracle that I stand alive 
to be able to tell the tale. Then I caught a glimpse of the 

15 quartermaster whirling the spokes of our wheel, and over went 
our helm to lay us athwart the forefoot of the Serapis, where 
we might rake and rush her decks. Our old Indiaman an- 
swered but doggedly; and the huge bowsprit of the Serapis, 
towering over our heads, snapped off our spanker gaff and 

20 fouled our mizzen rigging. 

“A hawser, Mr. Stacey, a hawser!”’ I heard the commodore 
shout, and saw the sailing-master slide down the ladder and 
erope among the dead and wounded and mass of broken spars 
and tackles, and finally pick up a smeared rope’s end, which 

251 helped him drag to the poop. There we found the com- 
modore himself taking skilful turns around the mizzen with 
the severed stays and shrouds dangling from the bowsprit, 
the French marines looking on. . 

“Don’t swear, Mr. Stacey,” said he, severely; “in another 

30 Minute we may all be in eternity.’ 

I rushed back to my guns, for the wind was rapidly swing- 
ing the stern of the Serapis to our own bow, now bringing her 
starboard batteries into play. Barely had we time to light our 
matches and send our broadside into her at three fathoms 

35 before the huge vessels came crunching together, the dis- 
ordered riggings locking, and both pointed northward to a 
leeward tide in a death embrace. The chance had not been 


THE “SERAPIS” 497 


given him to shift his crews or to fling open his starboard 
gun-ports. 

Then ensued a moment’s breathless hush, even the cries of 
- those in agony lulling. The pall of smoke rolled a little, and 
a silver moonlight filtered through, revealing the weltering 5 
- bodies twisted upon the boards. A stern call came from be- 
yond the bulwarks. 

“Have you struck, sir?” 

The answer sounded clear, and bred hero-worship in our 
souls. 10 

“Sir, I have not yet begun to fight.” 

Our men raised a hoarse yell, drowned all at once by the 
popping of musketry in the tops and the bursting of grenades 
here and there about the decks. A mighty muffled blast sent 
the Bon Homme Richard rolling to larboard, and the smoke rs 
eddied from our hatches and lifted out of the space between 
the ships. The Englishman had blown off his gun-ports. 
And next some one shouted that our battery of twelves was 
fighting them muzzle to muzzle below, our rammers leaning 
into the Serapis to send their shot home. No chance then 20 
for the thoughts which had tortured us in moments of sus- 
pense. That was a fearful hour, when a shot had scarce to 
leap a cannon’s length to find its commission; when the 
belches of the English guns burned the hair of our faces; 
when Death was sovereign, merciful or cruel at his pleasure. 25 
The red flashes disclosed many an act of coolness and of hero- 
ism. I saw a French lad whip off his coat when a gunner 
called for a wad, and another, who had been a scavenger, 
snatch the rammer from Pearce’s hands when he staggered 
with a grape-shot through his chest. Poor Jack Pearce! He 30 
did not live to see the work Scolding Sairy was to do that 
night. I had but dragged him beyond reach of the recoil 
when he was gone. 

Then a cry came floating down from aloft. Thrice did I 
hear it, like one waking out of a sleep, ere I grasped its im- 35 
port. “The Alliance! The Alliance!” But hardly had the 


name resounded with joy throughout the ship, when a hail 


498 RICHARD CARVEL 


of grape and canister tore through our sails from aft for- 
ward. “She rakes us! She rakes us!’ And the French 
soldiers tumbled headlong down from the poop with a wail 
of “Les Anglais Pont prise!” “‘Her Englishmen have taken 
s her, and turned her guns against us!” Our captain was left 
standing alone beside the staff where the Stars and Stripes 
waved black in the moonlight. 

“The Alliance is hauling off, sir!’ called the midshipman 

of the mizzen-top.. ““She is making for the Pallas and the 
10 Countess of Scarborough.” 

“Very good, sir,’ was all the commodore said. 

To us hearkening for his answer his voice betrayed no sign 
of dismay. Seven times, I say, was that battle lost, and 
seven times regained again. What was it kept the crews at 

15 their quarters and the officers at their posts through that hell 
of flame and shot, when a madman could scarce have hoped 
for victory? What but the knowledge that somewhere in the 
swirl above us was still that unswerving and indomitable man 
who swept all obstacles from before him, and into whose mind 

20 the thought of defeat could not enter. His spirit held us to 
our task, for flesh and blood might not have endured alone. 

We had now but one of our starboard nine-pounders on 
its carriage, and word came from below that our battery of 
twelves was all but knocked to scrap iron, and their ports 

2s blown into one yawning gap. Indeed, we did not have to be 
told that sides and stanchions had been carried away, for the 
deck trembled and teetered under us as we dragged Scolding 
Sairy from her stand in the larboard waist, clearing a lane 
for her between the bodies. Our feet slipped and slipped 

30 as we hove, and burning bits of sails and splinters dropping 
from aloft fell unheeded on our heads and shoulders. With 
the energy of desperation I was bending to the pull, when 
the Malay in front of me sank dead across the tackle. But, 
ere I could touch him, he was tenderly lifted aside, and a 

3s familiar figure seized the rope where the dead man’s hands 
had warmed it. Truly, the commodore was everywhere that 
night. 


THE “SERAPIS” 499 


“Down to the surgeon with you, Richard!’ he cried. “I 
will look to the battery.” 

Dazed, I put my hand to my hair to find it warm and 
wringing wet. When I had been hit, I knew not. But I 
shook my head, for the very notion of that cockpit turned 5 
my stomach. The blood was streaming from a gash in his 
own temple, to which he gave no heed, and stood encour- 
aging that panting line until at last the gun was got across 
and hooked to the ring-bolts of its companion that lay shat- 
tered there. “Serve her with double-headed, my lads,” he 10_ 
shouted, “and every shot into the Englishman’s main- 
mast!” 

“Ay, ay, sir,” came the answer from every man of that 
little remnant. 

The Serapis, too, was now beginning to blaze aloft, and 
choking wood-smoke eddied out of the Richard’s hold and 
mingled with the powder fumes. Then the enemy’s fire 
abreast us seemed to lull, and Mr. Stacey mounted the bul- 
warks, and cried out: ‘You have cleared their decks, my 
hearties!’”’ Aloft, a man was seen to clamber from our main- 20 
yard into the very top of the Englishman, where he threw a 
hand-grenade, as I thought, down her main hatch. An in- 
stant after an explosion came like a clap of thunder in our 
faces, and a great quadrant of light flashed as high as the 
Serapis’s trucks, and through a breach in her bulwarks I saw 25 
men running with only the collars of their shirts upon their 
naked bodies. 

’Twas at this critical moment, when that fearful battle 
once more was won, another storm of grape brought the 
spars about our heads, and that name which we dreaded most 3 


4 


5 


2 
O° 


vo 


of all was spread again. As we halted in consternation, a 
dozen round shot ripped through our unengaged side, and a 
babel of voices hailed the treacherous Landais with oaths 
and imprecations. We made out the Aliiance with a full 
head of canvas, black and sharp, between us and the moon. 35 
_ Smoke hung above her rail. Getting over against the signal 
i fires blazing on Flamborough Head, she wore ship and stood 


500 RICHARD CARVEL 


across our bows, the midshipman on the forecastle singing out 
to her, by the commodore’s orders, to lay the enemy by the 
board. There was no response. 

“Do you hear us?” yelled Mr. Linthwaite. 

5 ‘Ay, ay,’ came the reply; and with it the smoke broke 
from her and the grape and canister swept our forecastle. 
Then the Alliance sailed away, leaving brave Mr. Caswell 
among the many Landais had murdered. 

. The ominous clank of the chain pumps beat a sort of pre- 
1olude to what happened next. The gunner burst out of the 
hatch with blood running down his face, shouting that the 
Richard was sinking, and yelling for quarters as he made for 
the ensign-staff on the poop, for the flag was shot away. 
Him the commodore felled with a pistol-butt. At the gun- 

15ners heels were the hundred and fifty prisoners we had 
taken, released by the master at arms. They swarmed out 
of the bowels of the ship like a horde of Tartars, unkempt and — 
wild and desperate with fear, until I thought that the added 
weight on the scarce supported deck would land us all in 

20 the bilges. Words fail me when I come to describe the 
frightful panic of these creatures, frenzied by the instinct of 
self-preservation. They surged hither and thither as angry 
seas driven into a pocket of a storm-swept coast. They 
trampled rough-shod over the moaning heaps of wounded and 

25 dying, and crowded the crews at the guns, who were power- 
less before their numbers. Some fought like maniacs, and 
others flung themselves into the sea. 

Those of us who had clung to hope lost it then. Standing 
with my back to the mast, beating them off with a pike, 

30 visions of an English prison-ship, of an English gallows, 
came before me. I counted the seconds until the enemy’s 
seamen would be pouring through our ragged ports. hex. 
seventh and last time, and we were beaten, for we had not © 
men enough left on our two decks to force them down again. — 

35 Yes,—I shame to confess it,—the heart went clear out of me, — 
and with that the pain pulsed and leaped in my head like a 
devil unbound. At a turn of the hand I should have sunk 


THE “SERAPIS” 501 


to the boards, had not a voice risen strong and clear above 
that turmoil, compelling every man to halt trembling in his 
steps. 

“Cast off, cast off! The Serapis is sinking. To the pumps, 
ye fools, of you would save your lives!” 

That unerring genius of the gardener’s son had struck the 
only chord! 

They were like sheep before us as we beat them back into 
the reeking hatches, and soon the pumps were heard bumping 
with a renewed and a desperate vigour. Then, all at once, the ro 
towering mainmast of the enemy cracked and tottered and 
swung this way and that on its loosened shrouds. The first 
intense silence of the battle followed, in the midst of which 
came a cry from our top:— 

“Their captain is hauling down, sir!” 15 

The sound which broke from our men could scarce be 
called a cheer. That which they felt as they sank exhausted 
on the blood of their comrades may not have been elation. 
My own feeling was of unmixed wonder as | gazed at a calm 
profile above me, sharp-cut against the moon. 20 

I was moved as out of a revery by the sight of Dale swing- 
ing across to the Serapis by the main brace pennant. Calling 
on some of my boarders, I scaled our bulwarks and leaped 
fairly into the middle of the gangway of the Serapzs. 


Such is nearly all of my remembrance of that momen- 25 
tous occasion. | had caught the one glimpse of our first | 
lieutenant in converse with their captain and another of- 
ficer, when a naked seaman came charging at me. He had 
raised a pike above his shoulder ere I knew what he was 
about, and my senses left me. 30 


w 


CHAPTER LIT 


IN WHICH I MAKE SOME DISCOVERIES 


TuE room had a prodigious sense of change about it. That 
came over me with something of a shock, since the moment 
before I had it settled that I was in Marlboro’ Street. The 
bare branches swaying in the wind outside should belong to 

s the trees in Freshwater Lane. But beyond the branches were 
houses, the like of which I had no remembrance of in An- 
napolis. And then my grandfather should be sitting in that 
window. Surely, he was there! He moved! He was com- 
ing toward me to say: “Richard, you are forgiven,” and to 

10 brush his eyes with his ruffles. 

Then there was the bed-canopy, the pleatings of which were 
gone, and it was turned white instead of the old blue. And 
the chimney-place!_ That was unaccountably smaller, and 
glowed with a sea-coal fire. And the mantel was now but a 

15 bit of a shelf, and held many things that seemed scarce at 
home on the rough and painted wood,—gold filigree, and 
China and Japan, and a French clock that ought not to have 
been just there. Ah, the teacups! Here at last was some- 
thing to touch a fibre of my brain, but a pain came with the 

20 effort of memory. So my eyes went back to my grandfather 
in the window. His face was now become black as Scipio’s, 
and he wore a red turban and a striped cotton gown that was 
too large for him. And he was sewing. This was monstrous! 

I hurried over to the teacups, such a twinge did that dis- 

25 covery give me. But they troubled me near as much, and 
the sea-coal fire held strange images. The fascination in the 
window was not to be denied, for it stood in line with the 
houses and the trees. Suddenly there rose up before me a 
gate. Yes, I knew that gate, and the girlish figure leaning 


502 


comin’. 


I MAKE SOME DISCOVERIES 503 


over it. They were in Prince George Street. Behind them 

was a mass of golden-rose bushes, and out of these came forth 

a black face under a turban, saying, “Yes, mistis, I’se 
+ sites > 

“Mammy — Mammy Lucy!” 5 

The figure in the window stirred, and the sewing fell into 
its ample lap. 

“Now Lawd ’a mercy!” 

I trembled with a violence unspeakable. Was this but one 
more of those thousand voices, harsh and gentle, rough and x0 
tender, to which [ had listened in vain this age past? The 
black face was hovering over me now, and in an agony of 
apprehension [I reached up and felt its honest roughness. 
Then I could have wept for joy. 

“Mammy Lucy!” 15 

“Yes, Marse Dick?’’ 

“Where — where is Miss Dolly?” 

“Now, Marse Dick, doctah done say you not t’ talk, suh.”’ 

“Where is Miss Dolly?” I cried, seizing her arm. 

“Hush, Marse Dick. Miss Dolly’ll come terectly, suh. 20 
She’s lyin’ down, suh.” 

The door creaked, and in my eagerness I tried to lift 
myself. *[was Aunt Lucy’s hand that restrained me, and 
the next face I saw was that of Dorothy’s mother. But why 
did it appear so old and sorrow-lined? And why was the 2s 


hair now of a whiteness with the lace of the cap? She took 


my fingers in her own, and asked me anxiously if I felt any 
pain. 
“Where am I, Mrs. Manners?” 
“You are in London, Richard.” 30 
“In Arlington Street?” 
She shook her head sadly. ‘‘No, my dear, not in Arling- 
ton Street. But you are not to talk.” 
“And Dorothy? May I not see Dorothy? Aunt Lucy 


tells me she is here.” 35 


Mrs. Manners gave the old mammy a glance of reproof, a 


signal that alarmed me vastly. 


noe She oot 


504 RICHARD CARVEL 


“Oh, tell me, Mrs. Manners! You wil! speak the truth, 


Tell me if she is gone away?” 
“My dear boy, she is here, and under this very roof. And 
you shall see her as soon as Dr. Barry will permit. Which 
5 will not be soon,” she added with a smile, “if you persist in 
this conduct.” 


The threat had the desired effect. And Mrs. Manners 


quietly left the room, and after a while as quietly came back 
again and sat down by the fire, whispering to Aunt Lucy. 
zo Fate, in some inexplicable way, had carried me into the 
enemy’s country and made me the guest of Mr. Marmaduke 
Manners. As I lay staring upward, odd little bits of the 
past came floating to the top of my mind, presently to be 
pieced together. The injuries Mr. Marmaduke had done me 
15 were the first to collect, since I was searching for the cause of 
my resentment against him. The incidents arrived haphaz- 
ard as magic lanthorn views, but very vivid. His denial of 
me before Mr. Dix, and his treachery at Vauxhall, when he 
had sent me to be murdered. Next I felt myself clutching 
20 the skin over his ribs in Arlington Street, when I had flung 
him across the room in his yellow nightgown. That brought 
me to the most painful scene of my life, when I had parted 
with Dorothy at the top of the stairs. Afterward followed 
scraps of the years at Gordon’s Pride, and on top of them the 
25 talk with McAndrews. Here was the secret I sought. The 
crash had come. And they were no longer in Mayfair, but 
must have taken a house in some poorer part of London. 
This thought cast me down tremendously. 
And Dorothy! Had time changed her? ’Twas with that 
go query on my lips I fell asleep, to dream of the sun shining 
down on Carvel Hall and Wilmot House; of Aunt Hester and 


Aunt Lucy, and a lass and a lad romping through pleasant 


fields and gardens. 
When I awoke it was broad day once more. A gentleman 
35 Sat on the edge of my bed. He had a queer, short face, 
ruddy as the harvest moon, and he smiled good-humouredly 
when I opened my eyes. 


a | 


I MAKE SOME DISCOVERIES 505 


“JT bid you good morning, Mr. Carvel, for the first time 
since I have made your acquaintance,” said he. “And how 
do you feel, sir?” 

“T have never felt better in my life,’ I replied, which was 
the whole truth. 

“Well, vastly well,” says he, laughing, “prodigious well for 
a young man who has as many holes in him as you have. 
Do you hear him, Mrs. Manners?” 

At that last word, I popped up to look about the room, and 
the doctor caught hold of me with ludicrous haste. A pain zo 
shot through my body. 

“Avast, avast, my hearty,” cries he. “‘’Tis a miracle you 
can speak, let alone carry your bed and walk for a while yet.” 
And he turned to Dorothy’s mother, whom I beheld smiling 
at me. “You will give him the physic, ma’am, at the hours 1s 
I have chosen. Egad, I begin to think we shall come through. 
But pray, remember, ma’am, if he talks, you are to put a 
wad in his mouth.” 

“He shall have no opportunity to talk, Dr. Barry,” said 
Mrs. Manners. 20 

‘Save for a favour I have to ask you, doctor,” I cried. 

**Od’s bodkins! Already, sir? And what may that be?” 

“That you will allow me to see Miss Manners.” 

He shook with laughter, and then winked at me very 
roguishly. 25 
“Oh!” says he, “‘and faith, I should be worse than cruel. 

First she comes imploring me to see you, and so prettily that 
a man of oak could not refuse her. And now it is you begging 
to see her. Had your eyes been opened, sir, you might have 
had many a glimpse of Miss Dolly these three weeks past.” 30 

“What! She has been watching with me?’ [I asked, in 
a rapture not to be expressed. 

“’Od’s, but those are secrets. And the medical profession 
is close-mouthed, Mr. Carvel. So you want to see her? 
No,” cries he, “’tis not needful to swear it on the Evangels. 35 
And I let her come in, will you give me your honour as a 
gentleman not to speak more than two words to her?” 


506 RICHARD CARVEL 


“T promise anything, and you will not deny me looking at 
her,” said I 
He shook again, all over. “You rascal! You sad dog, 
sir! No, sir, faith, you must shut your. eyes. Eh, madam, 
s must he not shut his eyes?” 
“They were playmates, doctor,” answers Mrs. Manners. 
She was laughing a little, too. 
“Well, she shall come in. But remember that I shall have 
my ear to the keyhole, and you go beyond your promise, out 
ro She’s whisked. So I caution you not to spend rashly those 
two words, sir.” | 
And he followed Mrs. Manners out of the room, frowning 
and shaking his fist at me in mock fiendishness. I would 
have died for the man. For a space—a prodigious long 

15 space—lI lay very still, my heart bumping like a gun-carriage 

broke loose, and my eyes riveted on the crack of the door. 
Then I caught the sound of a light footstep, the knob turned, 
and joy poured into my soul ‘with the sweep of a Fundy 
tide. 

20 “Dorothy!” I cried. “Dorothy! 
She put her fingers to her lips. 
“There, sir,” said she, ‘‘now you have spoken them both at 

once!’ 
She closed the door softly behind her, and stood looking 

25 down upon me with such a wondrous love-light in her eyes 

as no man may describe. My fancy had not lifted me within 
its compass, my dreams even had not imagined it. And the 
fire from which it sprang does not burn in humbler souls. 
So she stood gazing, those lips which once had been the seat 
30 of pride now parted in a smile of infinite tenderness. But 
her head she still held high, and her body straight. Down 
the front of her dress fell a tucked apron of the whitest 
linen, and in her hand was a cup of steaming broth. 
“You are to take this, Richard,” she commanded. And 

35 added, with a touch of her old mischief, “‘ Mind, sir, if I hear 

a sound out of you, I am to disappear like the fairy god= 
mother.” 


!?? 


; 
q 
¢ 





| 





I MAKE SOME DISCOVERIES 507 


I knew full well she meant it, and the terror of losing her 
kept me silent. She put down the cup, placed another pillow 
behind my head with a marvellous deftness, and then began 


feeding me in dainty spoonfuls something which was surely 


nectar. And mine eyes, too, had their feast. Never before s 
had I seen my lady in this gentle guise, this task of nursing 


the sick, which her doing raised to a queenly art. 


Her face had changed some. Years of trial unknown to 
me had left an ennobling mark upon her features, increasing 


_ their power an hundredfold. And the levity of girlish years 10 


was gone. How I burned to question her! But her lips 
were now tight closed, her glance now and anon seeking 
mine, and then falling with an exquisite droop to the cover- 
let. For the old archness, at least, would never be eradi- 
cated. Presently, after she had taken the cup and smoothed rs 
my pillow, I reached out for her hand. It was a boldness 


_of which I had not believed myself capable; but she did not 





resist, and even, as I thought, pressed my fingers with her 
own slender ones, the red of our Maryland holly biushing in 
her cheeks. And what need of words, indeed! Our thoughts, 20 
too, flew coursing hand in hand through primrose paths, and 
the angels themselves were not to be envied. 

A master might picture my happiness, waking and sleep- 
ing, through the short winter days that came and went like 
flashes of gray light. The memory of them is that of a fig- 2s 
ure tall and lithe, a little more rounded than of yore, and a 


chiselled face softened by a power that is one of the world’s 


mysteries. Dorothy had looked the lady in rags, and house- 
wife’s cap and apron became her as well as silks or brocades. 
When for any reason she was absent from my side, I moped, 30 
to the quiet amusement of Mrs. Manners and the more 
boisterous delight of Aunt Lucy, who took her turn sewing in 
the window. I was near to forgetting the use of words, 


until at length, one rare morning when the sun poured in, 
the jolly doctor dressed my wounds with more despatch 35 
than common, and vouchsafed that I might talk awhile that 


day. | 


Po re 


508 , RICHARD CARVEL 


“Oh!” cries he, putting me as ever to confusion, “but I 
have a guess who my gentleman will be wishing to talk with. 
But [ll warrant, sir, you have said a deal more than [ 
have any notion of without opening your lips.” 

5s And he went away, intolerably pleased with his joke. 

Alas for the perversity of maiden natures! It was not my 
dear nurse who brought my broth that morning, but Mrs. 
Manners herself. She smiled at my fallen face, and took a 
chair at my bedside. 

ro “‘Now, my dear boy,” she said, “you may ask what ques- 
tions you choose, and I will tell you very briefly how you 
have come here.” 

“T have been thinking, Mrs. Manners,” I replied, “that if 
it were known that you harboured one of John Paul Jones’s 

15 officers in London, very serious trouble might follow for 


ou. 
x I thought her brow clouded a little. 
“No one knows of it, Richard, or is likely to. Dr. Barry, 
like so many in England, is a good Whig and friend to 
2o America. And you are in a part of London far removed 
from Mayfair.”” She hesitated, and then continued in a- 
voice that strove to be lighter: “This little house is in Char- 
lotte Street, Marylebone, for the war has made all of us 
suffer some. And we are more fortunate than many, for we 
25 are very comfortable here, and, though I say it, happier than 
in Arlington Street. And the best of our friends are still 
faithful. Mr. Fox, with all his greatness, has never de- 
serted us, nor my Lord Comyn. Indeed, we owe them much 
more than I can tell you of now,” she said, and sighed. 
30 ““ They are here every day of the world to inquire for you, 
and it was his Lordship brought you out of Holland.” | 
And so I had reason once more to bless this stanch friend! 
“Out of Holland?” I cried. | 
“Yes. One morning as we sat down to breakfast, Mr. Rip= 
3s ley’s clerk brought in a letter for Dorothy. But I must say” 
first that Mr. Dulany, who is in London, told us that you 
were with John Paul Jones. You can have no conception, 


I MAKE SOME DISCOVERIES 509 


Richard, of the fear and hatred that name has aroused in 
England. Insurance rates have gone up past belief, and the 
King’s ships are cruising in every direction after the traitor 
and pirate, as they call him. We have prayed daily for your 
safety, and Dorothy — well, here is the letter she received. 
It had been opened by the inspector, and allowed to pass. 
And it is to be kept as a curiosity.”” She drew it from the 
pocket of her apron and began to read. 


“THE TExeEx, October 3, 1779. 
“My Dear Miss Dororny: I would not be thought to 
flutter y’r Gentle Bosom with Needless Alarms, nor do I be- 
lieve | have misjudged y’r Warm & Generous Nature when [| 
write you that One who is held very High in y’r Esteem lies 
Exceedingly Ill at this Place, who might by ‘Tender Nursing 
regain his Health. I seize this Opportunity to say, my dear 
Lady, that I have ever held my too Brief Acquaintance with 
you in London as one of the Sacred Associations of my Life. 
From the Little I saw of you then I feel Sure that.this Appeal 
will not pass in Vain. I remain y’r most Humble and De- 

voted Admirer, JAMES ORCHARDSON.”’ 


_ “And she knew it was from Commodore Jones?” I asked, 
in astonishment. 

“My dear,”’ replied Mrs. Manners, with a quiet smile, “‘we 
women have a keener instinct than men — though I believe 
your commodore has a woman’s intuition. Yes, Dorothy 
knew. And [I shall never forget the fright she gave me as she 
rose from the table and handed me the sheet to read, crying 
but the one word. She sent off to Brook Street for Lord 
Comyn, who came at once, and in half an hour the dear fellow 


5 


Io 


was set out for Dover. He waited for nothing, since war with 30 


Holland was looked for at any day. And his Lordship him- 
self will tell you about that rescue. Within the week he had 
brought you to us. Your skull had been trepanned, you had 
this great hole in your thigh, and your heart was beating 
but slowly. By Mr. Fox’s advice we sent for Dr. Barry, who 
is a skilled surgeon, and a discreet man despite his manner. 


35 


510 RICHARD CARVEL ‘ 
+ 


And you have been here for better than three weeks, Richard, 
hanging between life and death.” 2 
“And I owe my life to you and to Dorothy,” I said. i 
“To Lord Comyn and Dr. Barry, rather,” she replied 
s quickly. ‘‘We have done little but keep the life they saved. 
And I thank God it was given me to do it for the son of your 
mother and father.” 
Something of the debt I owed them was forced upon me. 
They were poor, doubtless driven to make ends meet, and yet 
ro they had taken me in, called upon near the undivided services 
of an able surgeon, and worn themselves out with nursing me. 
Nor did I forget the risk they ran with such a guest. For 
the first time in many years my heart relented toward Mr. 
Marmaduke. For their sakes I forgave him over and over 
1s what I had suffered, and my treatment of him lay like a 
weight upon me. And how was I to repay them? They 
needed the money I had cost them, of that I was sure. After 
the sums I had expended to aid the commodore with the 
Ranger and the Bon Homme Richard, I had scarce a fithaal 
20to my name. With such leaden reflections was I occupied 
when I heard Mrs. Manners speaking to me. 4 
“Richard, I have some news for you which the doctor 
thinks you can bear to-day. Mr. Dulany, who is exiled like 
the rest of us, brought them. It’s a great happiness to be 
2s able to tell you, my dear, that you are now the master of 
Carvel Hall, and like to stay so.”’ 4 
The tears stole into her eyes as she spoke. And the enor 
mity of those tidings, coming as they did on the top of my 
dejection, benumbed me. All they meant was yet far away 
30 from my grasp, but the one supreme result that was first up 
to me brought me near to fainting in my weakness. 4 
“TI would not raise your hopes unduly, Richard,” the eood 
lady was saying, “but the best informed here seem to think 
that England cannot push the war much farther. If the 
35 Colonies win, you are secure in your title.” 
‘But how is it come about, Mrs. Manners?” I demande 
with my first breath. 










I MAKE SOME DISCOVERIES 5YI 


“You doubtless have heard that before the Declaration was 
signed at Philadelphia your Uncle Grafton went to the Com- 


| mittee at Annapolis and contributed to the patriot cause, and 


took very promptly the oath of the Associated Freemen: of 


Maryland, thus forsaking the loyalist party—” 


“Yes, yes,” I interrupted, “I heard of it when I was on the 
Cabot. He thought his property in danger.” 

“Just so,” said Mrs. Manners, laughing; “‘he became the 
best and most exemplary of patriots, even as he had been the 
best of Vories. He sent wheat and money to the army, and 10 


went about bemoaning that his only son fought under the 
_ English flag. But very little fighting has Philip done, my 


dear. Well, when the big British fleet sailed up the bay in 


_?77, your precious uncle made the first false step in his long 


career of rascality. He began to correspond with the Brit- 15 
ish at Philadelphia, and one of his letters was captured near 
the Head of Elk. A squad was sent to the Kent estate, 


_ where he had been living, to arrest him, but he made his 


escape to New York. And his lands were at once confiscated 


| by the state.” 20 


“Then they belong to the state,” I said, with misgiving. 

“Not so fast, Richard. At the last session of the Mary- 
land Legislature a bill was introduced, through the influence 
of Mr. Bordley and others, to restore them to you, their 
rightful owner. And insomuch as you were even then serv- 25 
ing the country faithfully and bravely, and had a clean and 
honourable record of service, the whole of the lands were 


| given to you. And now, my dear, you have had excitement 


enough for one day.” 


CHAPTER LIV 


MORE DISCOVERIES 


ALL that morning I pondered over the devious lane of my 
life, which had led up to so fair a garden. And one thing 
above all kept turning and turning in my head, until I 
thought I should die waiting for its fulfilment. Now was I 

5 free to ask Dorothy to marry me, to promise her the ease and 
comfort that had once been hers, should God bring us safe 
back to Maryland. The change in her was little less than a 
marvel to me, when I remembered the wilful miss who had 
come to London bent upon pleasure alone. Truly, she was 

ro of that rare metal which refines, and then outshines all oth- 
ers. And there was much I could not understand. A mir-— 
acle had saved her from the Duke of Chartersea, but why she 
had refused so many great men and good was beyond my 
comprehension. Not a glimpse ofher did I get that day, 

15 though my eyes wandered little from the knob of the door. © 
And even from Aunt Lucy no satisfaction was to be had as 
to the cause of her absence. 

“’Clare to goodness, Marse Dick,” said she, with great 
solemnity, “’clare to goodness, I’se nursed Miss Dolly since 

20 she was dat high, and neber one minnit ob her life is I knowed © 
what de chile gwine t’ do de next. She ain’t neber yit done 
what I calcelated on.” 

The next morning, after the doctor had dressed my wounds 
and bantered me to his heart’s content, enters Mr. Marma- 

25 duke Manners. I was prodigiously struck by the change in 
him, and pitied him then near as much as I had once de- 
spised him. He was arrayed in finery, as of old. But the 
finery was somewhat shabby; the lace was frayed at the 
edges, there was a neat but obvious patch in his small-clothes, - 


512 


MORE DISCOVERIES 513 


and two more in his coat. His air was what distressed me 
most of all, being that of a man who spends his days seeking 
favours and getting none. I had seen too many of the type 
not to know the sign of it. 

He ran forward and gave me his hand, which I grasped s 
as heartily as my weakness would permit. 

“They would not let me see you. until to-day, my dear 
Richard,” he exclaimed. “I bid you welcome to what is left 
of our home. ’Tis not Arlington Street, my lad.” 

“But more of a home than was that grander house, Mr. 10 
Manners.” 

He sighed heavily. 

“ Alas!’ said he, “poverty is a bitter draught, and we have 
drunk deep of it since last we beheld you. My great friends 
know me no more, and will not take my note for a shilling. rs 
They do not remember the dinners and suppers I gave them. 
Faith, this war-has brought nothing but misery, and how 
we are to get through it, God knows!”’ 

Now I understood it was not the war, but Mr. Marmaduke 
himself, which had carried his family to this pass. And 20 
some of my old resentment rekindled. 

“T know that I have brought you great additional anxiety 
and expense, Mr. Manners,” I answered somewhat testily. 
“The care I have been to Mrs. Manners and Dorothy I may 
never repay. But it gives me pleasure to feel, sir, that I am 2s 
in a position to reimburse you and likewise to loan you 
something until your lands begin to pay again.” 

“There the Carvel speaks,” he cried, “and the true son of 
our generous province. You can have no conception of the 
misfortunes come to me out of this quarrel. The mortgages 30 
on my Western Shore tobacco lands are foreclosed, and Wil- 
~ mot House itself is all but gone. You well know, of course, 
that I would do the same by you, Richard.” 

I smiled, but more in sadness than amusement. Hardship 
had only degraded Mr. Marmaduke the more, and even 1n 35 
trouble his memory was convenient as is that of most people 
in prosperity. I was of no mind to jog his recollection. 


514 RICHARD CARVEL ? ; 
But I wanted badly to ask about his Grace. Where had mya 


fine nobleman been at the critical point of his friend’s mis- 
fortunes? For I had had many a wakeful night over that 
same query since my talk with McAndrews. | 
5 ‘So you have come to your own again, Richard, my lad,” 
said Mr. Marmaduke, breaking in upon my train. “I have 
felt for you deeply, and talked many a night with Margaret 
and Dorothy over the wrong done you. Between you and — 
me,’ he whispered, “that uncle of yours is an arrant knave, 
zo Whom the patriots have served with justice. To speak truth, 
sir, I begin myself to have a little leaning to that cause which | 
you have so bravely espoused.” : 
This time I was close to laughing outright. But he was 
far too serious to remark my mirth. He commenced once — 
zs more, with an ahem, which gave me a better inkling than 
frankness of what bothered him. 
“You will have an agent here, Richard, I take it,”’ said he. 
“Your grandfather had one. Ahem! Doubtless this a 


i 
t 
4 


will advance you all you shall have need of, when you are well 
20 enough to see him. Fact is, he might come here.” 
“You forget, Mr. Manners, that I am a pirate and an out- ; 
law, and that you are the shielder of such.” 
That thought shook the pinch of Holland he held all over 
him. But he recovered. 4 
25 “My dear Richard, men of business are of no faction and 
of no nation. Their motto is discretion. And to obtain the 
factorship in London of a like estate to yours one of them 
would wear a plaster over his mouth, I’ll warrant you. You ; 
have but to summon one of the rascals, promise him a bit of 
3o War interest, and he will leave you as much as you desire, © ‘ 
and nothing spoken.” : 
“To talk plainly, Mr. Manners,” I replied, “I think — 
*twould be the height of folly to resort to such means. When 
I am better, we shall see what can be done.” . 
35 His face plainly showed his disappointment. 
“To be sure,” he said, in a whining tone, “I had forgotten 
your friends, Lord Comyn and Mr. Fox. They may do 


MORE DISCOVERIES sis 


~ something for you, now you own your estate. My dear sir, 
I dislike to say aught against any man. Mrs. Manners will 
tell you of their kindness to us, but | vow I have not been 
able to see it. With all the money at their command they 


will not loan me a penny in my pressing need. And I shame ; 


_ to say it, my own daughter prevents me from obtaining the 


money to keep us out of the Fleet. I know she has spoken to 
Dulany. Think of it, Richard, my own daughter, upon 
whom I lavished all when I had it, who might have made a 
score of grand matches when I gave her the opportunity, and xo 


- now we had all been rolling in wealth. I’ll be sworn I don’t 


comprehend her, nor her mother either, who abets her. For 
they prefer to cook Maryland dainties for a living, to put in 
the hands of the footmen of the ladies whose houses they 
once visited. And how much of that money do you suppose 15 
I get, sir? Will you believe it that 1” (he was shriekmg 
now), ‘‘that I, the man of the family, am allowed only my 
simple meals, a farthing for snuff, and not a groat for chaise- 


hire? At my age | am obliged to walk to and from their lord- 
ships’ side entrances in patched clothes, egad, when a new 20 


suit might obtain us a handsome year’s income!” 

I turned my face to the wall, completely overcome, and the 
tears scalding in my eyes, at the thought of Dorothy and her 
mother bending over the stove cooking delicacies for their 


livelihood, and watching at my bedside night and day de- 2; 


spite their weariness of body. And not a word out of these 


~ noble women of their sacrifice, nor of the shame and trouble 


and labour of their lives, who always had been used to every 
luxury! Nothing but cheer had they brought to the sick- 
room, and not a sign of their poverty and hardship, for they 30 


knew that their broths and biscuit and jellies must have 
choked me. No. It remained for this contemptible cur of a 
_ husband and father to open my eyes. 


He had risen when I had brought myself to look at him. 
And as I hope for heaven he took my emotion for pity of 35 


~ himself. 


“‘T have worried you enough for one day with my troubles, 


516 RICHARD CARVEL 


my lad,”’ said he. ‘‘ But they are very hard to bear, and once 


in a while it does me good to speak of them.” 
I did not trust myself to reply. 
It was Aunt Lucy who spent the morning with me, and 
s Mrs. Manners brought my dinner. I observed a questioning 
glance as she entered, which I took for an attempt to read 
whether Mr. Marmaduke had spoken more than he ought. 
But I would have bitten off my tongue rather than tell her 
of my discoveries, though perhaps my voice may have be- 
ro trayed an added concern. She stayed to talk on the prog- 
ress of the war, relating the gallant storming of Stony Point 
by Mad Anthony in July, and the latest Tory insurrection 
on our own Eastern Shore. She passed from these matters 
_ to a discussion of General Washington’s new policy of the 
15 defensive, for Mrs. Manners had always been at heart a pa- 
triot. And whilst I lay listening with a deep interest, in 
comes my lady herself. So was it ever, when you least ex- 
pected her, even as Mammy had said. She curtseyed very 


prettily, with her chin tilted back and her cheeks red, and — 


20 asked me how I did. 


“And where have you been these days gone, Miss Will-o’- — 


the-Wisp, since the doctor has given me back my tongue?” — 


I cried. 


“T like you better when you are asleep,” says she. “For 


25 then you are sometimes witty, though I doubt not the wit is 
9 BOR 


other people’s. 
So I saw that she had tricked me, and taken her watch at 


night. For I slept like a trooper after a day’s forage. As 


to what I might have said in my dreams — that thought 
30 made me red as an apple. 


“Dorothy, Dorothy,” says her mother, smiling, “you would _ 


provoke a saint.” 


“Which would be better fun than teasing a sinner,” replies — 


the minx, with a little face at me. ‘Mr. Carvel, a gentle-— 


35 man craves the honour of an audience from your Excellency.” — 


“A gentleman!” 


“Even so. He presents a warrant from your Excellency’s — 


- physician.” 





MORE DISCOVERIES 517 


With that she disappeared, Mrs. Manners going after her. 
And who should come bursting in at the door but my Lord 
Comyn? He made one rush at me, and despite my weak- 
ness bestowed upon me a bear’s hug. 

“Oh, Richard,” cried he, when he had released me, “I give 5 
you my oath that I never hoped to see you rise from that 
bed when we laid you there. But they say that love works 
wondrous cures, and, egad, I believe that now. Tis love is 
curing you, my lad.” 

He held me off at arm’s length, the old-time affection 10 
beaming from his handsome face. ; 

“What am I to say to you, Jack?’ I answered. And my 
voice was all but gone, for the sight of him revived the mem- 
ory of every separate debt of the legion I owed him. ‘How 
am I to piece words enough together to thank you for this 15 
supreme act of charity?” 

*°Od’s, you may thank your own devilish thick head,” said 
my Lord Comyn. “I should never have bothered my own 
about you were it not for her. Had it not been for her hap- 
piness do you imagine I would have picked you out of that 20 
crew of half-dead pirates in the Texel fort?” 

I might needs brush my cheek, then, with the sleeve of my 


night rail. 
‘And you will give me some account of this last prodigious 
turn you have done her?” I said. 25 


He laughed, and pinched me playfully. 

“Now are you coming to your senses,” said he. “There 
was cursed little to the enterprise, Richard, and that’s the 
truth. I got down to Dover, and persuaded the master of a 
schooner to carry me to Rotterdam. ‘That was not so difficult 30 
since your [error of the Seas was locked up safe enough in 
the Texel. In Rotterdam I had a travelling-chaise stripped, 
and set off at the devil’s pace for the Texel. You must know 
that the whole Dutch nation was in an uproar — as much of 
an uproar as those boors ever reach — over the arrival of 35 
your infamous squadron. The Court Party and our ambas- 
sador were for having you kicked out, and the Republi- 
cans for making you at home. I heard that their High 


518 RICHARD CARVEL 


Mightinesses had given Paul Jones the use of the Texel fort 
for his wounded and his prisoners, and thither I ran. And 
I was even cursing the French sentry at the drawbridge in 
his own tongue, when up comes your commodore himself. 
5 You may quarter me if I wasn’t knocked off my feet when 
[ recognized the identical peacock of a sea-captain we had 
pulled out of Castle Yard along with you, and offered a com- 
mission in the Royal Navy.” 
“Dolly hadn’t told you?” 
ro © “Dolly tell me!’ exclaimed his Lordship, scornfully. “She 
was in a State to tell me nothing the morning I left, save only 
to bring you to England alive, and repeat it over and over. 
But to return to your captain,—he, too, was taken all aback. 
But presently he whipt out my name, and [ his, without the 
rs Jones. And when I told him my errand, he wept on my 
neck, and said he had obtained unlimited leave of absence for 
you from the Paris commissioners. He took me up into a_ 
private room in the fort, where you were; and the surgeon, — 
who was there at the time, said that your chances were as 
zo slim as any man’s he had ever seen. Faith, you looked it, 
my lad. At sight of your face I took one big gulp, for I had— 
no notion of getting you back to her. And rather than come — 
without you, and look into her eyes, I would have drowned — 
myself in the Straits of Dover. 
25 ‘Despite the host of troubles he had on his hands, your 
commodore himself came with us to Rotterdam. Now I pro-— 
test I love that man, who has more humanity in him than — 
most of the virtuous people in England who call him hard 
names. If you could have seen him leaning over you, and 
30 speaking to you, and feeling every minute for your heart-— 
beats, egad, you would have cried. And when [| took you 
off to the schooner, he gave me an hundred directions how to 
care for you, and then his sorrow bowled him all in a heap.” | 
“And is the commodore still at the Texel?” I asked, after 
35 a space. : 
“Ay, that he is, with our English cruisers thick as gulls — 
outside waiting for a dead fish. But he has spurned the 


MORE DISCOVERIES 519 


French commission they have offered him, saying that of the 
Congress is good enough for him. And he declares openly 
that when he gets ready he will sail out in the Alliance under 
the Stars and Stripes. And for this I honour him,” added 
he, “and Charles honours him, and so must all Englishmen 5 
hhonour him when they come to their senses. And by Gad’s 
life, I believe he will get clear, for he is a marvel at seaman- 
ship.” 

“T pray with all my heart that he may,” said I, fervently. 

~ “God help him if they catch him!” my Lord exclaimed. 10 
“You should see the bloody piratical portraits they are scat- 
‘tering over London.” 

_ “Has the risk you ran getting me into England ever oc- 
‘curred to you, Jack?” I asked, with some curiosity. 

“Faith, not until the day after we got back, Richard,” rs 
says he, “when I met Mr. Attorney General on the street. 
?Sdeath, I turned and ran the other way like the devil was 
‘after me. For Charles Fox vows that conscience makes cow- 
_ards of the best of us.” 

“Co that is some of Charles’s wisdom!’ I cried, and 2 
laughed until I was forced to stop from pain. 
“Come, my hearty,” says Jack, “you owe me nothing for 
fishing you out of Holland — that is her debt. But I de- 
‘clare that you must one day pay me for saving her for you. 
What! have I not always sworn that she loved you? Did I 2s 
‘not pull you into the coffee-room of the Star and Garter 
‘years ago, and tell you that same?” 
~My face warmed, though I said nothing. 

“Oh, you sly dog! I’ll warrant there has been many a 

tender talk just where I’m sitting.” 30 

ee “Not ene,” said I. 
— “’Slife, then, what have you been doing,” he cries, “seeing 
her every day and not asking her to marry you, my master 
of Carvel Hall?” 

“Since I am permitted to use my tongue, she has not come 35 
‘near me, save when I slept,” I answered ruefully. 
_ “Nor will she, I’ll be sworn,” says he, shaken with laughter. 





520 RICHARD CARVEL 


“’Ods, have you no invention? Egad, you must feign 
sleep, and seize her unawares.’ | 
I did not inform his Lordship how excellent this Pa 
seemed to me. ~ : 
s “And I possessed the love of such a woman, Richard,” hd 
said, in another tone, “I think I should die of happiness. She 
will never tell you how these weeks past she has scarce left 
your side. The threats combined of her mother and the doc- 
tor, and Charles and me, would not induce her to take any 
ro Sleep. And time and time have I walked from here to Brook 
Street without recognizing a step of the way, lifted clear out 
of myself by the sight of her devotion.” 
What was my life, indeed, that such a blessing should come 
into it! 
ts ‘When the crash came,” he continued, “’twas she took 
command, and ’tis God’s pity she had not done so long be- 
fore. Mr. Marmaduke was pushed to the bottom of the 
family, where he belongs, and was given only snuff-money. 
She would give him no opportunity to contract another debt, 
20 and even charged Charles and me to loan him nothing. Nor 
would she receive aught from us, but” (he slanced at me 
uneasily) — “‘but she and Mrs. Manners must take to cook- 
ing delicacies—” 
“Yes, yes, I know,” I faltered. 
25 ‘What! has the puppy told you?” cried he. 
I nodded. “He was in here this morning, with his woes.” 
“And did he speak of the bargain he tried to make with 
our old friend, his Grace of Chartersea?”’ 
“He tried to sell her again?” I cried, my breath catching. 
30 ‘I have feared as much since [| heard of their misfortunes.” 
“Yes,” replied Comyn, “that was the first of it. “Iwas 
while they were still in Arlington Street, and before Mrs. 
Manners and Dorothy knew. Mr. Marmaduke goes posting 
off to Nottinghamshire, and comes back inside the duke’s own 
35 carriage. And his Grace goes to dine in Arlington Street for 
the first time in years. Dorothy had wind of the trouble. 
then, Charles having warned her. And not a word would she, 
speak to Chartersea the whole of the dinner, nor look 7 


MORE DISCOVERIES 521 


the right or left of her plate. And when the servants are 
gone, up gets my lady with a sweep and confronts him. 

“ “Will your Grace spare me a minute in the drawing- 
room!’ says she. 

“He blinked at her in vast astonishment, and pushed back 5 
his chair. When she was come to the door, she turns with 
another sweep on Mr. Marmaduke, who was trotting after. 

“You will please to remain here, father,’ she said; “what 
I am to say is for his Grace’s ear alone.’ 

“Of what she spoke to the duke I can form only an esti- 10 
mate, Richard,” my Lord concluded, “but Ill lay a fortune 
*twas greatly to the point. For in a little while Chartersea 
comes stumbling down the steps. And he has never dark- 
ened the door since. And the cream of it is,” said Comyn, 
“that her father gave me this himself, with a face a foot zs 
long, for me to sympathize. The little beast has strange 
bursts of confidence.” 

“And stranger confidants,” I ejaculated, thinking of the 
morning, and of Courtenay’s letter, long ago. 

But the story had made my blood leap again with pride of 20 
her. The picture in my mind had followed his every sen- 
tence, and even the very words she must have used were ring- 
ing in my ears. 

Then, as we sat talking in low tones, the door opened, and 
a hearty voice cried out:-— 25 

“Now where is this rebel, this traitor? They tell me one 
lies hid in this house. ’Slife, I must have at him!” 

“Mr. Fox!” I exclaimed. 

He took my hands in his, and stood regarding me. 

“For the convenience of my friends, I was christened 30 
Charles,” said he. 

I stared at him in amazement. He was grown a deal 
stouter, but my eye was caught and held by the blue coat 
and buff waistcoat he wore. They were frayed and stained 
and shabby, yet they seemed all of a piece with some new 3s 
grandeur come upon the man. 

“Ts all the world turning virtuous? Is the millennium 
arrived?” I cried. 


E 


~~. 


— 


522 RICHARD CARVEL 


He smiled, with his old boyish smile. 

“You think me changed some since that morning we drove 
together to Holland House—do you remember it—after the 
night at St. Stephen’ Sri 

5 Remember it!’ [ repeated, with emphasis, “Tl warrant 
I can give you every bit of our talk.” 

“T have seen many men since, but never have 1 met your 
equal for a most damnable frankness, Richard Carvel. Even 
Jack, here, is not half so blunt and uncompromising. But 
hy!—that first night T 
clapped eyes on you in racine Street and I loved you 
when your simplicity made us that speech at Brooks’s Club. 
So you have not forgotten that morning under the trees, 
when the dew was on the grass. Faith, | am glad of it. 
ts What children we were!’’ he said, and sighed. 
“And yet you were a Junior Lord,” I said. | 
“Which is more than | am now,’ sihed answered. “Somehow 
—you may laugh—somehow I have never been able to shake 
off the influence of your words, Richard. Your cursed ear= 
20 nestness scared me.’ -) 
“Scared you?” I cried, in astonishment. / 
“Just that,” said Charles. “Jack will bear witness that I 
have said so to Dolly a score of times. For I had never 
imagined such a single character as yours. You know we 
25 were all of us rakes at fifteen, to whom everything good inv 
the universe was a joke. And do you recall the teamster we 
met by the park, and how he arrested his salute when he 
saw who it was? At another time I should have laughed’ 
over that, but it cut me to have it happen when you were 

30 along. 

“Rnd Pll lay an hundred guineas to a farthing the fellow 
would put his head on the block for Charles now,” cut in his” 
Lordship, with his hand on Mr. Fox’s shoulder. “Behold, O 
Prophet,” he cried, ‘one who is become the champion of the e 

35 People he reviled! Behold the friend of Rebellion and Lése 
Mayjesté, the viper in Britannia’ s bosom!” 

“Oh, have done, Jack,’”’ said Mr. Fox, impatiently, “ 





te 
rs) 
led a 


MORE DISCOVERIES 523 


have no more music in your soul than a cow. Damned little 
virtue attaches to it, Richard,” he went on. ‘North threw 
me out, and the King would have nothing to do with me, so I 
had to pick up with you rebels and traitors.” 

“You will not believe him, Richard,” cried my Lord; “you s 
have only to look at him to see that he lies. Take note of the 
ragged uniform of the rebel army he carries, and then think 
of him en petit maitre, with his cabriolet and his chestnuts. 
Egad, he might be as rich as Rigby were it not for those 
principles which he chooses to deride. And I have seen him 10 
reduced to a crown for them. [| tell you, Richard,” said my 
Lord, “by espousing your cause Charles is become greater 
than the King. For he has the hearts of the English people, 
which George has not, and the allegiance of you Americans, 
which George will never have. And if you once heard himrs 
in Parliament, you should hear him now, and see the Speaker 
wagging his wig like a man bewitched, and hear friends and 
enemies calling out for him to go on whenever he gives the : 
sign of a pause.” | 

This speech of his Lordship’s may seem cold in the writing, 20 
my dears, and you who did not know him may wonder at it. 
It had its birth in an admiration few men receive, and which 
in Charles Fox’s devoted coterie was dangerously near to 
idolatry. During the recital of it Charles walked to the win- 
dow, and there stood looking out upon the gray prospect, zs 
seemingly paying but little attention. But when Comyn had 
finished, he wheeled on us with a smile. 

“Eead, he will be telling you next that I have renounced 
the devil and all his works, Richard,” said he. 

*’Oons, that I will not,” his Lordship made haste to de- 30 
clare. “‘For they were born in him, and will die with him.” 

“And you, Jack,” I asked, “‘how is it that you are not in 
arms for the King, and commanding one of his frigates?” 

“Why, it is Charles’s fault,” said my Lord, smiling. “Were 
it not for him I should be helping Sir George Collier lay 35 
waste to your coast towns,” 


CHAPTER LV 


“THE LOVE OF A MAID FOR A MAN” 

THE next morning, when Dr. Barry had gone, Mrs. Man- 
ners propped me up in bed and left me for a little, so she” 
said. Then who should come in with my breakfast on a_ 
tray but my lady herself, looking so fresh and beautiful that 

5 she startled me vastly. \ 

“‘A penny for your thoughts, Richard,” she cried. “Why 
you are as grave as a screech-owl this brave morning.” § 

“To speak truth, Dolly,” said I, “I was wondering” 
how the commodore is to get away from the Texel, with half 

ro the British navy lying in wait outside.” 

“Do not worry your head about that,” said she, setting 
down the tray; “it will be mere child’s play to him. Oh, 
but I should like to see your commodore again, and tell him 
how much I love him.” 

ts “I pray that you may have the chance,” I replied. 

With a marvellous quickness she had tied the napkin be- 
neath my chin, not so much as looking at the knot. Then 
she stepped to the mantel and took down one of Mr. Wedg-— 
wood’s cups and dishes and, wiping them with her apron, 

20 filled the cup with fragrant tea which she tendered me with — 
her eyes sparkling. _ 

“Your Excellency is the first to be honoured with this sery- 
ice,” says she, with a curtsey. | 

I was as a man without a tongue, my hunger gone from 

25 Sheer happiness — and fright. And yet eating the breakfast © 
with a relish because she had made it. She busied herself 
about the room, dusting here and tidying there, and anon — 
throwing a glance at me to see if I needed anything. My — 


eyes followed her hither and thither. When I had finished, 


h 


524 } 


. 


7] 


“THE LOVE OF A MAID FOR A MAN” 525 


she undid the napkin, and brushed the crumbs from the 
coverlet. 

“You are not going?’ I said, with dismay. 

“Did you wish anything more, sir?” she asked. 

“Oh, Dorothy,” I cried, “it is you I want, and you wills 
not come near me.” 

For an instant she stood irresolute. Then she put down 
the tray and came over beside me. 

“Do you really want me, sir?”’ 

“Dorothy,” I began, “I must first tell you that I have 10 
some guess at the sacrifice you are making for my sake, and 
of the trouble and danger which I bring you.”’ 

Without more ado she put her hand over my mouth. 

“No,” she said, reddening, “‘you shall tell me nothing of 
the sort.” 15 
I seized her hand, however it struggled, and, holding it 

fast, continued: 

“And I have learned that you have been watching with 
me by night, and working by day, when you never should 
have worked at all. To think that you should be reduced to 20 
that, and I not know it!” 

Her eyes sought mine for a fleeting second. 

“Why, you silly boy, I have made a fortune out of my 
cookery. And fame, too, for now am I known from Mary- 
lebone to Chelsea, while before my name was unheard of 25 
out of little Mayfair. Indeed, I would not have missed the 
experience for a lady-in-waiting-ship. I have learned a deal 
since I saw you last, sir. I know that the world, like our 
Continental money, must not be taken for the price that is 
stamped upon it. And as for the watching with you,” said 30 
-my lady, “that had to be borne with as cheerfully as might 
be. Since I had sent off for you, I was in duty bound to 
do my share toward your recovery. I was even going to add 
that this watching was a pleasure,—our curate says the sense 
of duty performed is sure to be. But you used to cry out 35 
the most terrifying things to frighten me; the pattering of 
blood and the bumping of bodies on the decks, and the black 


526 RICHARD CARVEL 


rivulets that ran and ran and ran and never stopped; and — 
strange, rough commands I could not understand; and the 
name of your commodore whom you love so much. And 
often you would repeat over and over: ‘I have not yet begun 
sto fight, I have not yet begun to fight? ” 4 

“Yes, twas that he answered when they asked him if he 
had struck,” I exclaimed. j 

“Tt must have been an awful scene,” she said, and her — 
shoulders quivered. ‘When you were at your worst you — 

xo would talk of it, and sometimes of what happened to you in ~ 
London, of that ride in Hyde Park, or —or of Vauxhall,” ~ 
she continued hurriedly. “And when I could bear it no ™ 
longer, | would take your hand and call you by name, and ~ 
often quiet you thus.” 

ts_ ‘And did I speak of aught else” I asked eagerly. 

“Oh, yes. When you were calmer, it would be of your 
childhood, of your grandfather and your birthdays, of Cap-— 
tain Clapsaddle, and of Patty and her father.” : 

“And never of Dolly, I suppose.” : 

zo She turned away her head. 

“And never of Dolly?” ; 

“T will tell you what you said once, Richard,” she an- — 
swered, her voice dropping very low. ‘I. was sitting by the © 
window there, and the dawn was coming. And suddenly 

25 | heard you cry: ‘Patty, when I return will you be my wife? — 
I got up and came to your side, and you said it again, twice.” — 

The room was very still. And the vision of Patty in the — 
parlour of Gordon’s Pride, knitting my woollen stocking, — 
rose before me. q 

30 “Yes,” I said at length, “I asked her that the day before I~ 
left for the war. God bless her! She has the warmest heart — 
in the world, and the most generous nature. Do you know — 
what her answer was, Dorothy?” ; 

“No.” ’Twas only her lips moving that formed the word. — 

3s She was twisting absently the tassel of the bed curtain. 3 

“She asked me if I loved her.” : 

My lady glanced up with a start, then looked me search- © 
ingly through and throngh. 





“THE LOVE OF A MAID FOR A MAN” = 527 


“And you?” she said, in the same inaudible way. 

“T could answer nothing. ”Iwas because of her father’s 
dying wish I asked her, and she guessed that same. I would 
not tell her a lie, for only the one woman lives whom [| love, 
and whom I have loved ever since we were children to- 5 
gether among the strawberries. Need I say that that woman 
is you, Dorothy? I loved you before we sailed to Carvel Hall 
between my grandfather’s knees, and I will love you till death 
claims me.” 

‘Then it seemed as if my heart had stopped beating. But 10 
the snowy apron upon her breast fluttered like a sail stirring 
in the wind, her head was high, and her eyes were far away. 
Even my voice sounded in the distance as | continued :— 

“Will you be the mistress of Carvel Hall, Dorothy? Hal- 
lowed is the day that I can ask it.” 15 

What of this earth may excel in sweetness the surrender 
of that proud and noble nature! And her words, my dears, 
shall be sacred to you, too, who are descended from her. 
She bent forward a little, those deep blue eyes gazing full 
into my own with a fondness to make me tremble. 20 

“Dear Richard,” she said, “I believe I have loved you 
always. If I have been wilful and wicked, I have suffered 
more than you know — even as I have made you suffer.” 

“And now our suffering is over, Dorothy.” 

“Oh, don’t say that, my dear!’ she cried, “but let us 25 
rather make a prayer to God.” 

Down she got on her knees close beside me, and I took both 
of her hands between my own. But presently I sought for a 
riband that was around my neck, and drew out a locket. 
Within it were pressed those lilies of the valley I had picked 30 
for her long years gone by on my birthday. And she smiled, 
though the tears shone like dewdrops on her lashes. 

“When Jack brought you to us for dead, we did not take it 
off, dear,” she said gently. “I wept with sorrow and joy at 
sight of it, for I remembered you as you were when you 35 
picked those flowers, and how lightly I had thought of leay- 
ing you as I wound them into my hair. And then, when I 
had gone aboard the Annapolis, I knew all at once that | 


528 RICHARD CARVEL 


would have given anything to stay, and I thought my heart 


would break when we left the Severn cliffs behind. But 
that, sir, has been a secret until this day,” she added, smiling 
archly through her tears. 
s She took out one of the withered flowers, and then as ca- 
ressingly put it back beside the others, and closed the locket. 
“T forbade Dr. Barry to take it off, Richard, when you lay 
so white and still. I knew then that you had been true to 
me, despite what I had heard. And if you were to die—” 
roher voice broke a little as she passed her hand over my 
brow, “if you were to die, my single comfort would have 
been that you wore it then.” 
“And you heard rumours of me, Dorothy?” 
“George Worthington and others told me how ably you 
rs managed Mr. Swain’s affairs, and that you had become of 
some weight with the thinking men of the province. Rich- 
ard, I was proud to think that you had the courage to laugh 
at disaster and to become a factor. I believe,’ she said 
shyly, “’twas that put the cooking into my head, and gave 
2ome courage. And when I heard that Patty was to marry 
you, Heaven is my witness that I tried to be reconciled and 
think it for the best. Through my own fault I had lost 
you, os I knew well she would make you a better wife 
than I.” 
2s ‘And you would not even let Jack speak for me!” 
“Dear Jack!” she cried; “were it not for Jack we should 
not be here, Richard.” 
“Indeed, Dolly, two people could scarce fall deeper in debt 
to another than are you and | to my Lord Viscount,” I an- 


30 swered with feeling. ‘‘Honesty and loyalty to us both © 


saved you for me at the very outset.” 


“Yes,” she replied thoughtfully, “I believed you dead. — 


And I should have married him, I think. For Dr. Courtenay 
had sent me that piece from the Gazette telling of the duel 
35 between you over Patty Swain —” 
“Dr. Courtenay sent you that!’ I interrupted. 
“T was a wild young creature then, my dear, with little 


“THE LOVE OF A MAID FOR A MAN” 529 


beside vanity under my cap. And the notion that you could 
admire and love any girl but me was beyond endurance. 
Then his Lordship arrived in England, brimming with praise 
of you, to assure me that the affair was not about Patty at 
all. This was far from making me satisfied that you were 5 
not in love with her, and I may say now that I was miser- 
able. Then, as we were setting out for Castle Howard, came 
the news of your death on the road to Upper Marlboro’. I 
could not go a step. Poor Jack, he was very honest when he 
proposed,” she said, with a sigh. 10 

“He loved you, Dorothy.” 

She did not hear me, so deep was she in thought. 

“Twas he who gave me news of you, when I was starving 
at Gordon’s.” 

“And I —I starved, too, Richard,” she answered softly. 15 
“Dearest, I did very wrong. There are some matters that 
must be spoken of between us, whatever the pain they give. 
And my heart aches now when I think of that dark day in 
Arlington Street when I gave you the locket, and you went 
out of my life. I knew that I had done wrong then, Rich- 20 
ard, as soon as ever the door closed behind you. I should 
have gone with you, for better for worse, for richer for poorer. 

I should have run after you in the rain and thrown myself 
at your feet. And that would have been best for my father 
and for me.”’ 25 

She covered her face with her hands, and her words were 
stifled by a sob. 

“Dorothy, Dorothy!” I cried, drawing her to me. “An- 
other time. Not now, when we are so happy.” 

“Now, and never again, dear,” she said. “Yes, I saw o 
and heard all that passed in the drawing-room. And I did 
not blame, but praised you for it. I have never spoken a 
word beyond necessity to my father since. God forgive me!” 
she cried, “but I have despised him from that hour. When 
I knew that he had plotted to sell me to that detestable brute, 35 
working upon me to save his honour, of which he has not 
the smallest spark; that he had recognized and denied you, 


530 RICHARD CARVEL 


friendless before our house, and sent you into the darkness 
at Vauxhall to be murdered, then he was no father of mine. 
I would that you might know what my mother has suffered 
from such a man, Richard.” 
s “My dear, I have often pitied her from my soul,” I said. 
“And now I shall tell you something of the story of the 
Duke of Chartersea,” she went on, and I felt her tremble 
as she spoke that name. “I think of all we have Lord 
Comyn to thank for, next to saving your life twice, was his 
ro telling you of the danger I ran. And, Richard, after refus- 
ing you that day on the balcony over the park, I had no 
hope left. You may thank your own nobility and courage 
that you remained in London after that. Richard,” she 
said, “do you recall my asking you in the coach, on the way 
15 from Castle Yard, for the exact day you met my father in 
Arlington Street?”’ 
“Yes,” I replied, in some excitement, “yes.’ 
at last to come at the bottom of this affair. 
“The duke had made a formal offer for me when first we 
2zocame to London. I think my father wrote of that to Dr. 
Courtenay.”’ (I smiled at the recollection, now.) “Then 
his Grace persisted in following me everywhere, and vowed 
publicly that he would marry me. I ordered him from our 
house, since my father would not. At last one afternoon he 
2s came back to dine with us, insolent to excess. I left the 
table. He sat with my father two hours or more,. drinking 
and singing, and giving orders to the servants. I shut my 
door, that I might not hear. After a while my mother came 
up to me, crying, saying that Mr. Manners would be branded 
3e with dishonour and I did not consent to marry his Grace,— 
a most terrible dishonour, of which she could not speak. | 
That the duke had given my father a month to win my 
consent. And that month was up, Richard, the very after- 
noon you appeared with Mr. Dix in Arlington Street.” 
35° And you agreed to marry him, Dolly?” I asked breath- 
lessly. | , 
“ By the grace of Heaven, I did not,” she answered quickly. 


> 


For I was 


“THE LOVE OF A MAID FOR A MAN”. 531 


_ “The utmost that I would consent to was a two months’ res- 
pite, promising to give my hand to no one in that interval. 
And so I was forced to refuse you, Richard. You must 
have seen even then that I loved you, dear, though I was 
~so cruel when you spoke of saving me from his Grace. 1s 
could not bear to think that you knew of any stain upon our 
family. I think — I think I would rather have died, or have 
married him. That day I threw Chartersea’s presents out of 
the window, but my father made the servants gather them all 
which escaped breaking, and put them in the drawing-room. 10 
Then I fell ill.” 

She was silent, I clinging to her, and shuddering to think 
how near I had been to losing her. . 

“Tt was Jack who came to cheer me,” I said presently. 
“His faith in you was never shaken, sweetheart. But I went rs 
to Newmarket and Ampthill, and behaved like the ingrate 
I was. I richly deserved the scolding he had for me when 
I got back to town, which sent me running to Arlington 
Street. There I met Dr. James coming out, who asked me if 
I was Mr. Carvel, and told me that you had called my name.” 20 

“And, you goose, you never suspected,” says she, smiling. 

“How was I to suspect that you loved a provincial booby 
like me, when you had the choice of so. many accomplished 
gentlemen with titles and estates?” 

“‘How were you to perceive, indeed, that you had qualities 25 
which they lacked?” 

“And you were forever vowing that you would marry a 
nobleman, my lady. For you said to me once that I should 
call you so, and ride in the coach with the coroneted panels 
when I came home on a visit.” 36 

“And I said, too,” retorted Dolly, with mischief in her eyes, 
“do you remember what I told you the New Year’s eve when 
we-sat out by the sun dial at Carvel Hall, when I was so 
proud of having fixed Dr. Courtenay’s attentions? I said 
that I should never marry you, sir, who was so rough and 35 
masterful, and thrashed every lad that did not agree with 
you. 


532 RICHARD CARVEL 


‘Alas, so you did, and a deal more!”’ I exclaimed. 
With that she broke away from me and, getting to her feet, 
made me a low curtsey with the grace that was hers alone. 
“You are my Lord and my King, sir,” she said, “and my 
srough Patriot Squire, all in one.” 
“Are you happy, Dolly?” I asked, tremulous from my own 
oy. 
“cy have never been happy in all my life before, Richard 
dear,” she said. 
ro In truth, she was a being transformed, and more won- 
drous fair than ever. And even then I pictured her in the 
brave gowns and jewels I would buy her when times were 
mended, when our dear country would be free. All at once, 
ere | could draw a breath, she had stooped and kissed me 
15 ever so lightly on the forehead. 
The door opened upon Aunt Lucy. She had but to look 


at us, and her black face beamed at our blushes. My lady — 


threw her arms about her neck, and hid her face in the 
ample bosom. 
20 ‘Now praise de good Lawd!” cried Mammy; “I knowed 


it dis longest time. What’s I done tole you, Miss Dolly? — 


What’s I done tole you, honey?” 
But my lady flew from the room. Presently I heard the 
spinet playing softly, and the words of that air came out of 
25 my heart from long ago. 


“Love me little, love me long, 
Is the burthen of my song. 
Love that is too hot and strong 
Burneth soon to waste. 
30 Still, I would not have thee cold, 
Nor too backward, nor too bold. 
Love that lasteth till ’tis old 
Fadeth not in haste.” 


= 


CHAPTER. LVI 


HOW GOOD CAME OUT OF EVIL 


*Twas about candlelight when I awoke, and Dorothy was 
sitting alone beside me. Her fingers were resting upon my 
arm, and she greeted me with a smile all tenderness. 

‘And does my Lord feel better after—after his excitement 
to-day?” she asked. 

“Dorothy, you have made me a whole man again. I could 
walk to Windsor and back.” 

sé 2 : +> 

You must have your dinner, or your supper first, sir, 
she answered gayly, “‘and do you rest quiet until I come back 
to feed you. Oh, Richard, dear,” she cried, “how delightful 10 
that you should be the helpless one, and dependent on me!” 

As I lay listening for the rustle of her gown, the minutes 
dragged eternally. Every word and gesture of the morning 
passed before my mind, and the touch of her lips still burned 
on my forehead. At last, when I was getting fairly restless, rs 
the distant tones of a voice, deep and reverberating, smote 
upon my ear, jarring painfully some long-forgotten chord. 
That voice belonged to but one man alive, and yet I could 
not name him. Even as I strained, the tones drew nearer, 
and they were mixed with sweeter ones I knew well, and 20 
Dorothy’s mother’s voice. Whilst I was still searching, the 
door opened, the voices fell calm, and Dorothy came in bear- 
ing a candle in each hand. As she set them down on the table, 

I saw an agitation in her face, which she strove to hide as she 
addressed me. 25 

“Will you see a visitor, Richard?” 

“A visitor!’ I repeated, with misgiving. *Iwas not so she 
had announced Comyn. 


“Will you see Mr. Allen?” 
533 


534 RICHARD CARVEL 


“Mr. Allen, who was the rector of St. Anne’s? Mr. Allen 
in London, and here?” 

“Yes.”’? Her breath seemed to catch at the word. “He 
says he must see you, dear, and will not be denied. How he 

5 discovered you were with us I know not.” 

“See him!” I cried. “And I had but the half of my 
strength I would fling him downstairs, and into the kennel. 
Will you tell him so for me, Dorothy?” 

And I raised up in bed, shaken with anger against the 

roman. In a trice she was holding. me, fearfully. 

“Richard, Richard, you will open your wound. I pray you 
be quiet.’ 

“And Mr. Allen has the impudence to ask to see me!” 


“Listen, Richard. Your anger makes you forget many ~ 


15 things. Remember that he 1s a dangerous man, and now that 
he knows you are in London he holds your liberty, perhaps 
your life, in his hands.” 

It was true. And not mine alone, but the lives and liberty 
of others. 

20 “Do you know what he wishes, Dorothy?” 

“No, he will not tell us. But he is greatly excited, and 
says he must see you at once, for your own good. For your 
own good, Richard!” 

“T do not trust the villain, but he may come in,” I said, at 

25 length. 


She gave me the one lingering, anxious look, and opened 


the door. 


Never had I beheld such a change in mortal man as there © 


was in Mr. Allen, my old tutor, and rector of St. Anne’s. 
30 And ’twas a baffling, intangible change. ” Iwas as if the mask 
had been torn from his face, for he was now just a plain 
adventurer that need not have imposed upon a soul. The 
coarse wine and coarse food of the lower coffee houses of 


London had replaced the rich and abundant fare of Mary-— 


3sland. The next day was become one of the terrors of his life. 


His clothes were of poor stuff, but aimed at the fashion. And — 
yet—and yet, as I looked upon him, a something was in his © 


; 
i: 
: 
w 
i 
i 





HOW GOOD CAME OUT OF EVIL 535 


face to puzzle me entirely. I had seen many stamps of men, 
but this thing I could not recognize. 

He stepped forward with all of his old confidence, and did 
not regard a farthing my cold stare. 

“Tis like gone days to see you again, Richard,” he cried. 
“And I perceive you have as ever fallen into the best of 
hands.” 

“Tam Mr. Carvel to my enemies, if they must speak to me 
at all,” I said. 

“But, my dear fellow, I am not your enemy, or | should 
not be here this day. And presently I shall prove that same.” 
He took snuff. “But first ] must congratulate you on coming 
alive out of that great battle off Flamborough. You look as 
though you had been very near to death, my lad. A deal 
nearer than I should care to get.” 

What to say to the man! What to do save to knock him 
down, and I could not do that. 

“There can be no passing the time of day between you and 
me, Mr. Allen.” I answered hotly. ‘‘You, whose machina- 
tions have come as near to ruining me as a man’s can.” 

“And that was your fault, my dear sir,” said he, as he 
brushed himself. ‘You never showed me a whit of consid- 
eration, which is very dear to men in my position.” 

My head swam. Then I saw Dolly by the door regarding 
me curiously, with something of a smile upon her lips, but 
anxiety still in her eyes. With a “‘by your leave, ma’am,” to 
her, Mr. Allen took the chair abreast me. 

te have but to call me when you wish, Richard,” said 
she. 

“Nay, Dorothy, Mr. Allen can have nothing to say to me 
that you may not hear,”’ I said instantly. “And you will do 
me a favour to remain.” 

She sat down without a word, where I could look at her. 
Mr. Allen raised his eyebrows at the revelation in our talk, 
but by the grace of God he kept his mouth shut. 

“And now, Mr. Allen,” I said, “to what do I owe the 
pain of this visit?” 


TS 


29 


25 


30 


35 


536 | RICHARD CARVEL 


“The pain!” he exclaimed, and threw back his head and 
gave way to a fit of laughter. “By the mass! your politeness 
drowns me. But I like you, Richard, as I have said more 


than once. I believe your brutal straight-dealing has more — 


sto do with my predilection than aught else. For I have seen 
a deal of rogues in my day.” 
“And they have seen a deal of you, Mr. Allen.’ 
“So they have,” he cried, and laughed the more. ‘‘Egad, 
Miss Dorothy, you have saved all of him, I think.”? Then 
zohe swung round upon me, very careless. “Has your Uncle 
Grafton called to express his sympathies, Richard?” he 
asked. 
That name brought a cry out of my head, Dolly seizing 
the arm of her chair. 
as_ ‘Grafton Carvel in London?” I exclaimed. 


> 


““Ay, in very pretty lodgings in Jermyn Street, for he has — 


put by enough, I’ll warrant you, despite the loss of his lands. 

Your aunt is with him, and his dutiful son, Philip, now 

broken of his rank in the English army. They arrived, before 
20 yesterday, from New York.” 

“And to what is this an introduction?’ | demanded. 

“T merely thought it strange,” said Mr. Allen, imperturb- 
ably, “that he had not called to inquire after his nephew’s 
health.” ; 

25 Dolly was staring at him, with eyes wide open. 

‘And pray, how did he discover I was in London, sir?” I 
said. “I was about to ask how you knew of it, but that is 
one and the same thing.” 

He shot at me a look not to be solved. 

30 ‘It is not well to bite the hand that lifts you out of the 
fire, Richard,” said he. 

“You had not gained admission to this house were I not on 
my back, Mr. Allen.” 

“And that same circumstance is a blessing for you,” he 

35 cried. 

“Twas then I saw Dorothy making me mute signals of 
appeal. 

“J cannot think why you are here, Mr. Allen,” I said. 


a 


HOW GOOD CAME OUT OF EVIL 537 


“When you consider all the harm you have done me, and all 
the double-dealing I may lay at your door, can you blame me 
for my feelings?” 

“No,” he answered, with more soberness than he had yet 
used; “I honour you for them. And perchance I am here to 5 
atone for some of that harm. For I like you, my lad, and 
that’s God’s truth.” 

“ All this is neither here nor there, Mr. Allen,”’ I exclaimed, 
wholly out of patience. “If you have come with a message, 
let me have it. If not, I beg you get out of my sight, for I 10 
have neither the will nor the desire for palavering.” 

“Oh, Richard, do keep your temper!” implored Dorothy. 
“Can you not see that Mr. Allen desires to do us—to do you 
—a service?” 

“Of that I am not so sure,”’ I replied. 15 

“Tt is his way, Miss Manners,” said the rector, “and I hold 
it not against him. To speak truth, I looked for a worse 
reception, and came steeled to withstand it. And had my 
skin been thin, I had left ere now.” He took more snuff. “It 
was Mr. Dix,” he said to me slowly, ‘“‘ who informed Mr. Car- 20 
vel of Your presence in London.” 

“And how the devil did Mr. Dix know?” 

He did not reply, but glanced apprehensively at Dorothy. 
And I have wondered since at his consideration. 

“Miss Manners may not wish to hear,”’ he said uneasily. 25 

“Miss Manners hears all that concerns me,” I answered. 

He shrugged his shoulders in comprehension. 

“Tt was Mr. Manners, then, who went to Mr. Dix, and told 
him under the pledge of secrecy.” 

Not a sound came from Dorothy, nor did I dare to look at 30 
her face. The whole matter was clear to me now. After his 
conversation with me, Mr. Marmaduke had lost no time in 
seeing Mr. Dix, in order to raise money on my prospects. 
And the man of business had gone straight to Grafton with 
the intelligence. The suspicion flashed through me that Mr. 35 
Allen had been sent to spy, but his very next words dis- 
armed it. 

“ And now, Richard,” he continued, “before I say what I 


538 RICHARD CARVEL 


have come to say, and since you cannot now prosecute me, [ 
mean to confess to you something which you probably know 
almost to a certainty. I was in the plot to carry you off and 
deprive you of your fortune. I have been paid for it, though 
snot very handsomely. Fears for my own safety alone kept me 
from telling you and Mr. Swain. And I swear to you that I 
was sorry for the venture almost before I had embarked, 
and ere [ had received a shilling. The scheme was laid out 
before I took you for a pupil; indeed, that was part of it, 
zo as you no doubt have guessed. As God hears me, I learned 
to love you, Richard, in those days at the rectory. You were 
all of a man, and such an one as | might have hoped to be 
had I been born like you. You said what you chose, and 
spoke from your own convictions, and catered to no one. You 

ts did not whine when the luck went against you, but lost like a 
gentleman, and thought no more of it. You had no fear of 
the devil himself. Why should you? While your cousin 
Philip, with his parrot talk and sneaking ways, turned my 
stomach. I was sick of him, and sick of Grafton, I tell you. 

zo But dread of your uncle drove me on, and IJ had debts to 
frighten me.” : 

He paused. *lwas with a strange medley of emotions I 
looked at him. And Dorothy, too, was leaning forward, her 
lips parted and her eyes riveted upon his face. 

25 ‘Oh, I am speaking the truth,” he said bitterly. “And I 
assume no virtue for the little justice it remains in my 
power to do. It is the lot of my life that I must be false 
to some one always, and even now I am false to your uncle. 
Yes, I am come to do justice, and ’tis a strange errand for 

3ome. I know that estates have been restored to you by the 
Maryland Legislature, Richard, and I believe in my heart that 
you will win this war.” Here he fetched a memorandum 
from his pocket. “‘But to make you secure,” said he, “‘in 
the year 1710, and on the 9th of March, old style, your 

35 great-grandfather, Mr. George Carvel, drew up a document 
entailing the lands of Carvel Hall. By this they legally 
pass to you.” 


a ee 


HOW GOOD CAME OUT OF EVIL 539 


“The family settlement Mr. Swain suspected!” I ex- 
claimed. 

“Just so,” he answered. 

‘And what am I to pay for this information?” I asked. 

Hardly were the words spoken, when Dorothy ran to my s 
bedside, and seizing my hand, faced him. 

*He—he is not well, Mr. Allen,” she cried. 

The rector had risen, and stood gazing down at us with 
the whole of his life written on his face. That look was 
fearful to see, and all of hell was expressed therein. For 10 
what is hell if it is not hope dead and buried, and galling 
regret for what might have been? With mine own great 
happiness so contrasted against his torture, my heart melted. 

*“T am not well, indeed, Mr. Allen,” I said. ‘‘God knows 
how hard it is for me to forgive, but I forgive you this 1s 
night.” 

One brief instant he stared at me, and then tumbled sud- 
denly down into his chair, his head falling forward on his 
arms. And the long sobs by which his frame was shaken 
awed our very souls. Dorothy drew back against me, clasp- 20 
ing my shoulder, the tears wet upon her cheeks. What we 
looked on, there in the candlelight, was the Revelation itself. 

How long it endured none of us might say. And when at 
last he raised his face, it was haggard and worn.in truth, but 
the evil of it seemed to have fled. Again and again he strove 25 
to speak. The words would not obey. And when he had 
mastered himself, his voice was shattered and gone. 

“Richard, I have sinned heavily in my time, and preached 
God’s holy word with a sneer and unbelief in my heart. He 
knows what I have suffered, and what I shall yet suffer before 30 
His judgment comes for us all. But I beg it is no sin to pray 
to Him for your happiness and Miss Dorothy’s.” 

He stumbled there, and paused, and then continued with 
more steadiness:— 

“T came here to-night to betray you, and might have gone 35 
hence to your uncle to claim my pieces of silver. I remain to 
tell you that Grafton has an appointment at nine with his 


540 RICHARD CARVEL 


Majesty’s chief Secretary of State. I need not mention his. 


motives, nor dwell upon your peril. For the King’s senti- 

ments toward Paul Jones are well known. You must leave 

London without delay, and so must Mr. Manners and his 
s family.” 

Is 1t the generations which decide? When I remember how 
Dorothy behaved that night, I think so. Scarce had the rec- 
tor ceased when she had released me and was standing erect 
before him. Pity was in her eyes, but in her face that cour- 

ro age which danger itself begets in heroic women. 

“You have acted a noble part this day, Mr. Allen,” she 
said, “to atone for the wrongs you have done Richard. May 
nae forgive you, and make you happier than you have 

een!’ 


15 He struggled to his feet, listening as to a benediction. 


Then, with a single glance to give me confidence, she was 
gone. And for a minute there was silence between us. 
“How may you be directed to?” J asked. 
He leaped as out of a trance. 
20 “Just ‘the world,’ Richard,” said he. ‘For I am adrift 
again, and not very like to find a harbour, now.” 
‘You were to have been paid for this, Mr. Allen,” I replied. 
“And a man must live.” 
“A man must live!” he cried. “The devil coined that line, 
25 and made it some men’s history.”’ 
“T have you on my conscience, Mr. Allen,” I went on, “for 
[ have been at fault as well as you. I might have treated you 
better, even as you have said. And I command you to assign 
a place in London whence you may be reached.” 
30 “A letter to the “Mitre” coffee house will be delivered,” 
he said. 
“You shall receive it,” I answered. “And now I bid you 
good-by, and thank you.” 
He seized and held my hand. Then walked blindly to the 
3s door and turned abruptly. 
“I do not tell you that I shall change my life, Richard, for 
I have said that too many times before. Indeed, I warn you 
that any money you may send will be spent in drink, and— 


« a TS 


ee 


HOW GOOD CAME OUT OF EVIL 541 


and worse. I will be no hypocrite to you. But I believe 
that I am better this hour than I have been since last I knelt 
at my mother’s knee in the little Oxfordshire cottage where 
I was born.” 


When Dorothy returned to me, there was neither haste in 
her step nor excitement in her voice. Her very coolness in- 
spired me. 

pare you feel strong enough for a journey, Richard?” she 
asked. - 

“To the world’s end, Dolly, if you will but go with me.’ 

She smiled faintly. ‘‘I have sent off for my Lord and Me. 
Fox, and pray one of them may be here presently.” 

Searcely greater were the visible signs of apprehension 
upon Mrs. Manners. Her first care, and Dorothy’s, was to 
catechise me most particularly on my state. And whilst they 
were so occupied Mr. Marmaduke entered, wholly frenzied 
from fright, and utterly oblivious to his own blame in the 


Io 


15 


matter. He was sent out again directly. After that, with ° 


Aunt Lucy to assist, they hurriedly packed what few things 
might be taken. The costly relics of Arlington Street were 
untouched, and the French clock was left on the mantel to 
tick all the night, and for days to come, in a silent and for- 
saken room; or perhaps to greet impassively the King’s of- 
ficers when they broke in at the door. But I caught my 
lady in the act of wrapping up the Wedgwood cups and dishes. 

In the midst of these preparations Mr. Fox was heard with- 
out, and was met at the door by Dorothy. ‘Two sentences 
sufficed her to tell him what had occurred, and two seconds 
for this man of action to make his decision. 

“In an hour you shall have travelling-chaises here, Doro- 
thy,” he said. “‘You must go to Portsmouth, and take ship 
for Lisbon. And if Jack does not arrive, I will go with you.” 

““No, Charles, you must not!’’ she cried, her emotion con- 
quering her for the nonce. “That might be to ruin your 
career, and perchance to lose your life. And suppose we 
were to escape, what would they say of you!” 

“Pish!’’ Charles retorted, to hide some feelings of his own; 


20 


30 


35 


542 RICHARD CARVEL 


“once our rebel is out of the country, they may speak their — 


minds. They have never lacked for names to call me, and ] 
have been dubbed a traitor before now, my dear lady.” 


He stepped hastily to the bed, and laid his hand on me 


s with affection. 


“Charles,” I said, “this is all of a piece with your old reck- | 


lessness. You were ever one to take any risk, but I will not 


hear of such a venture as this. Do you think I will allow the © 


hope of all England to be staked for a pirate? And would 
xo you break our commander of her rank? All that Dorothy 


need do at Portsmouth is to curtsey to the first skipper 
she meets, and [ll warrant he will carry us all to the antip- © 


odes.” 
“Egad, but that is more practical than it sounds,” he re- 





15 plied, with a glance of admiration at my lady, as she stood — 


so tall before us. “She has a cool head, Richard Carvel, 


and a long head, and—and I’m thinking you are to come out 
of this the best of all of us. You cannot get far off your 
‘course, my lad, with her at the helm.” 
20 It was there his voice belied the jest in his words, and he 
left us with precipitation. 

They lifted me out of my sheets (I was appalled to discover 
my weakness), and bundled me with tender care in a dozen 
shawls and blankets. My feet were thrust into two pairs of 

2s heavy woollen stockings, and Dorothy bound her own silk 
kerchief at my throat, whispering anxious questions the 
while. And when her mother and mammy went from the 
room, her arms flew around my neck in a passion of solici- 
tude. Then she ran away to dress for the journey, and in a 

3o surprising short time was back again, with her muff and 
her heavy cloak, and bending over me to see if I gave any 
signs of failure. 

Fifty and five minutes had been registered by the French 
clock, when the rattle of wheels and the clatter of hoofs 

35 sounded below, and Charles Fox panted up the stairs, muf- 
fled in a huge wrap-rascal. “Twas he and Aunt Lucy carried 


me down to the street, Dorothy walking at my side, and — 
propped me up in the padded corner of one of the two 


: 





HOW GOOD CAME OUT OF EVIL 543 


vehicles in waiting. This was an ample travelling-carriage 
with a lamp hanging from its top, by the light of which my 
lady tucked me in from head to foot, and then took her place 
next me. Aunt Lucy filled most of the seat opposite. ‘The 
baggage was hoisted up behind, and Charles was about 5 
to slam the door, when a hackney-chaise turned the corner 
at a gallop and pulled up in the narrow street abreast, and the 
figure of my Lord Comyn suddenly leaped within the compass 
of the lanthorn’s rays. He was dressed as for a ball, with 
only a thin rain-cloak over his shoulders, for the night was 10 
thick with mist. He threw at us a startled look that was a 
question. 

“Jack, Richard is to be betrayed to-night by his uncle,” 
said Charles, shortly. “And I am taking them to Ports- 
mouth to get them off for Lisbon.” rs 

“Charles,” said his Lordship, sternly, “give me that great- 
coat. 

It was just the one time that ever I saw uncertainty on 
Mr. Fox’s face. He threw an uneasy glance into the chaise. 

“T have brought money,” his Lordship went on rapidly; 20 
“twas that kept me, for I guessed at something of this kind. 
Give me the coat, I say.” 

Mr. Fox wriggled out of it, and took the oiled cape in 
return. “Thank you, Jack,” he said simply, and stepped 
into the carriage. ‘Who is to mend my waistcoats now!” he 25 
cried. “Faith, I shall treasure this against you, Richard. 
Good-by, my lad, and obey your rebel general. Alas! I must 
even ask your permission to salute her.” 

And he kissed the unresisting Dorothy on both her cheeks. 
‘God keep the two of you,” he said, ‘for I love you with all 3o 
my heart.” 

Before we could answer he was gone into the night; and my 
Lord, standing without, had closed the carriage door. And 
that was the last I saw of this noble man, the true friend of 
America, who devoted his glorious talents and his life to 35 
fighting the corruption that was rotting the greatness of Eng- 
land. He who was followed by the prayers of the English 
race was ever remembered in our own humble ones. 


CHAPTER LVII 


I COME TO MY OWN AGAIN 


*Twas a rough, wild journey we made to Portsmouth, my 
dears, and I think it must have killed me had not my lady 
been at my side. We were no sooner started than she pulled 
the curtains and opened her portmanteau, which I saw was 

Fsnear filled with things for my aid and comfort. And I was 
made to take a spoonful of something. Never, I believe, 
was medicine swallowed with a greater willingness. Talk was 





impossible, so I lay back in the corner and looked at her; and 


now and anon she would glance at my face, with a troubled 
ro guess in her own as to how I might stand the night. For we 
were still in London. That I knew by the trot of our horses, 
and by the granite we traversed from time to time. But at 
length we rumbled over a bridge, there was a sharp call back 
from our post-boy to him of the chaise behind, and then be- 
1sgan that rocking and pitching and swaying and creaking, 
which was to last the whole night long, save for the brief stops 
at the post-houses. 
After an hour of it, I was holding my breath against the 
lurches, like a seasick man against that bottomless fall of the 
20 ship’s bows on the ocean. I had no pain,—only an over- 


whelming exhaustion,—but the joy of her touch and her ~ 


presence kept me from failing. And though Aunt Lucy 
dozed, not a wink of sleep did my lady get through all of 
those weary twelve hours. Always alert was she, solicitous 
2s beyond belief, scanning ever the dial of her watch to know 
when to give me brandy and physic; or reaching across 
to feel my temples for the fever. The womanliness of that 
last motion was a thing for a man to wonder at. But most 
marvellous of all was the instinct which told her of my chief 


544 





I COME TO MY OWN AGAIN _ 54s 


sickening discomfort,—of the leathery, travelled smell of the 

carriage. As a relief for this she charged her pocket-napkin 

with a most delicate perfume, and held it to my face. 

When we drew up to shift horses, Jack would come to the 
door to inquire if there was aught she wanted, and to knows 
how I was bearing up. And often Mrs. Manners likewise. 
At first I was for talking with them, but this Dorothy would 
not allow. Presently, indeed, it was beyond my power, and 
I could only smile feebly at my Lord when I heard Dolly 
asking him that the hostlers might be more quiet. Toward 10 
morning a lethargy fell upon me. Once I awoke when the 
lamp had burned low, to perceive the curtains drawn back, 

a black blotch of trees without, and the moonlight streaming 

in on my lady’s:- features. With the crack of a whip I was 

off again. 15 
When next consciousness came, the tarry, salt smell of a 

ship was in my nostrils, and I knew that we were embarked. 

I lay in a clean bunk in a fair-sized and sun-washed cabin, 

and I heard the scraping of ropes and the tramp of feet on the 

deck above my head. Framed against the irregular glass of 20 

the cabin window, which was greened by the water beyond, . 

Dorothy and my Lord stood talking in whispers. 

i Jackie sl said: 

; Ai the sound they turned and ran toward me, asking how 
Celts 25 
“T feel that words are very empty, Jack, to express such a 

gratitude as mine,” I answered. “Twice you have saved me 

from death, you have paid my debts, and have been stanch 
to us both in our troubles. And—’ The effort was beyond 

me, and I glanced appealingly at Dolly. 30 
‘And it is to you, dear Jack,” she finished, “it is to you 

alone that we owe the great joy of our lives.” 

Her eyes were shining through her tears, and her smile 
was like the sun out of a rain-swept sky. His Lordship took 
one of her hands in his own, and one of mine. He scanned 35 
our faces in a long, lingering look. 

“You will cherish her, Richard,’ he said brokenly, “for 


546 RICHARD CARVEL 


her like is not to be found in this world. I knew her worth 
when first she came to London, as arrant a baggage as ever 
led man a dance. I saw then that a great love alone was 
needed to make her the highest among women, and from the ~ 

snight I fought with you at the Coffee House I have felt upon 
whom that love would fall. O thou of little faith,” he cried, 
“what little | may have done has been for her. No, Richard, ~ 
you do not deserve her, but I would rather think of her as 
your wife than that of any man living.” 


to =I shall not dwell upon that painful farewell which wrung 
our hearts, and made us silent for a long, long while after 
the ship was tossing in the short seas of the Channel. 
Nor is 1t my purpose to tell you of that long voyage across. 
the Atlantic. We reached Lisbon in safety, and after a week 
15 of lodgings in that city by the best of fortune got passage in 
a swift bark bound for Baltimore. For the Chesapeake com- 
merce continued throughout the war, and kept alive the — 
credit of the young nation. There were many excitements 
ere we sighted the sand-spits of Virginia, and off the Azores 
20we were chased for a day and a night by a British sloop 
of war. Our captain, however, was a cool man and a sea- 
man, and. slipped through the cruisers lying in wait off the 
Capes very triumphantly. 
But the remembrance of those fair days at sea fills my soul 
2s with longing. The weather was mild and bright for the 
season, and morning upon morning two stout topmen would 
carry me out to a sheltered spot on the deck, always chosen 
by my lady herself. There I sat by the hour, swathed in 
many layers of wool, and tended by her hands alone. Every 
3o nook and cranny of our lives were revealed to the other. She ~ 
loved to hear of Patty and my years at Gordon’s, and would 
listen with bated breath to the stories of the Ranger and 
the Bon Homme Richard, and of that strange man whom we 
both loved, whose genius had made those cruises famous. 
35 Sometimes, in low voices, we talked of our future; but often, 
when the wind blew and the deck rocked and the sun flashed 


I COME TO MY OWN AGAIN 547 


upon the waters, a silence would fall between us that needed 
no words to interpret. 

Mrs. Manners yielded to my wish for us all to go to Carvel 
Hall. It was on a sparkling morning in February that we 
sighted the familiar toe of Kent Island, and the good-s 
natured skipper put about and made for the mouth of our 
river. Then, as of old, the white cupola of Carvel House 
gleamed a signal of greeting, to which our full hearts beat 
a silent response. Once again the great windmill waved its 
welcome, and the same memory was upon us both as we io 
gazed. Of a hale old gentleman in the sheets of a sailing 
pinnance, of a boy and a girl on his knees quivering with 
excitement of the days to come. Dorothy gently pressed my 
hand as the bark came into the wind, and the boat was 
dropped into the green water. Slowly they lowered me into 15 
it, for I was still helpless, Dorothy and her mother and 
Aunt Lucy were got down, and finally Mr. Marmaduke 
stepped gingerly from the sea-ladder over the gunwale. The 
cutter leaped under the strong strokes up the river with the 
tide. Then, as we rounded the bend, we were suddenly 20 
astonished to see people gathered on the landing at the foot 
of the lawn, where they had run, no doubt, in a flurry at sight 
of the ship below. In the front of the group stood out a 
strangely familiar figure. 

“Why,” exclaimed Dolly, ‘it is Ivie Rawlinson!” 25 

Ivie it was, sure enough. And presently, when we drew a 
little closer, he gave one big shout and whipped off the hat 
from his head; and off, too, came the caps from the white 
heads of Scipio and Chess and Johnson behind him. Our oars 
were tossed, Ivie caught our bows, and reached his hand to 30 
Dorothy. It was fitting that she should be the first to land 
at Carvel Hall. 

“Twas yere bonny face I seed first, Miss Dolly,” he 
cried, the tears coursing down the scars of his cheeks. “An’ 
syne I kennt weel the young master was here. Noo Good be 35 
Hao for this blythe day, that Mr. Richard’s cam to his ain 
at last!’ 


548 RICHARD CARVEL 
But Scipio and Chess could only blubber as they helped him) 


to lift me out, Dolly begging them to be careful. As they 


carried me up the familiar path to the pillared porch, the 


first I asked Ivie was of Patty, and next why he had left 


sGordon’s. She was safe and well, despite the Tories, and 
herself had sent him to take charge of Carvel Hall as soon 
as ever Judge Bordley had brought her the news of its 
restoration to me. He had supplied her with another over- 
seer. [hanks to the good judge and to Colonel Lloyd, who 
ro had looked to my interests since Grafton was fled, Ivie had 
found the old place in good order, all the negroes quiet, and 

impatient with joy against my arrival. 
It is time, my children, to bring this story to a close. I 


would I might write of those delicious spring days I spent. 


ts with Dorothy at Carvel Hall, waited on by the old servants 
of my grandfather. At our whim my chair would be moved 
from one to another of the childhood haunts; on cool days 
we sat in the sun by the dial, where the flowers mingled 
their odours with the salt breezes off the Chesapeake; or anon, 

zo when it was warmer, in the summer-house my mother loved, 
or under the shade of the great trees on the lawn, looking out 
over the river. And once my lady went off very mysteriously, 
her eyes brimful of mischief, to come back with the first 
strawberries of the year staining her apron. 

2s We were married on the fifteenth of June, already an anni- 
versary for us both, in the long drawing-room. General Clap- 
saddle was there from the army to take Dorothy in his arms, 
even as he had embraced another bride on the same spot in 


years gone by. She wore the wedding gown that was her — 


3e mother’s, but when the hour was come to dress Aunt Lucy 
and Aunt Hester failed in their task, and it was Patty who 


performed the most of that office, and hung the necklace of — 


pearls about her neck. 
Dear Patty! She hath often been with us since. You have 
3s heard your mothers and fathers speak of Aunt Patty, my 
dears, and they will tell you how she spoiled them when 
they went a-visiting to Gordon’s Pride. 


I COME TO MY OWN AGAIN 549 


Ere I had regained my health, the war for Independence 
was won. I pray God that time may soften the bitterness it 
caused, and heal the breach in that noble race whose motto 
is Freedom. That the Stars and Stripes and the Union Jack 
may one day float together to cleanse this world of tyranny! 5 


AFTERWORD 


Tue author makes most humble apologies to any who have, 
or think they have, an ancestor in this book. He has drawn 
the foregoing with a very free hand, and in the Maryland 
scenes has made use of names rather than of actual personages. 
His purpose, however poorly accomplished, was to give some ro 
semblance of reality to this part of the story. Hence he has 
introduced those names in the setting, choosing them entirely 
at random from the many prominent families of the colony. 

No one may read the annals of these men, who were at 
once brave and courtly, and of these women, who were ladies 15 
by nature as well as by birth, and not love them. The 
fascination of that free and hospitable life has been so strong 
on the writer of this novel that he closes it with a genuine 
regret and the hope that its perusal may lead others to the 
pleasure he has derived from the history of Maryland. 20 

As few liberties as possible have been taken with the lives 
of Charles James Fox and of John Paul Jones. The latter 
hero actually made a voyage in the brigantine John about the 
time he picked up Richard Carvel from the Black Moll, after 
the episode with Mungo Maxwell at Tobago. The Scotch 25 
scene, of course, is purely imaginary. Accuracy has been 
aimed at in the account of the fight between the Bon Homme 
Richard and the Serapis, while a little different arrangement 
might have been better for the medium of the narrative. To , 
be sure, it was Mr. Mease, the purser, instead of Richard 30 
Carvel, who so bravely fought the quarter-deck guns; and in 
reality Midshipman Mayrant, Commodore Jones’s aide, was 


550 . RICHARD CARVEL 


wounded by a pike in the thigh after the surrender. No 
injustice is done to the second and third lieutenants, who 


were absent from the ship during the action. 
The author must acknowledge that the only good anecdote 
3 in the book and the only verse worth printing are stolen. Lhe 
story on page 348 concerning Mr. Garrick and the Archbishop 
of York may be found in Fitzgerald’s life of the actor, much 
better told. The verse on pages 101-102 is by an unknown 
author in the Annapolis Gazette, and is republished in Mr. 

ro Elihu Riley’s excellent History of Annapolis. 


va 


QUESTIONS AND NOTES 


Cuapter I: What is done in the first chapter (1) to begin 

the development of the plot; (2) to portray character; (3) to 
give a picture of the times? 

Study the ways in which the characters are introduced. 

Judging from this chapter alone, which characters should you 

say we are going to like? which to dislike? Which are to play 
important parts? 

CuapTer II: Indicate three different ways in which we 
are made to feel that Clapsaddle will be Richard’s friend. 

Is there any detail in the story of Richard’s mother’s child- 
hood which you expect to find developed later? Is it so 
developed! 

How does Richard resemble his father, Captain Jack? 
What characteristics of Richard and Dorothy here por- 
trayed are emphasized later? 

Cuapter III: Show how the significance of the title of this 
chapter is brought out in the narrative. 

Notice how here and elsewhere in the story are emphasized 
the differences of social classes and the pride in social standing. 

CuapTer IV: Why is so much space spent in introducing 
the Reverend Mr. Allen? 

What characteristics of Grafton Carvel here brought out 
are emphasized and developed later in the story? 

This chapter is especially rich in anticipatory hints, that 1s, 
fingerposts along the path of the plot, indicating for.us the 
course events are likely to take. Such, for example, is that 
passage showing Richard a born horseman. Point out several 
such hints. Watch for these in later chapters. 

Cuarter V: Notice how in this chapter the chief interest 
is shifted from Richard’s relations with his Uncle Grafton 


551 


552 QUESTIONS AND NOTES 


to those with Dorothy. By thus turning from one thread of 
the story to another, the author frequently heightens our 
interest. 

Does the chief value of this chapter lie in its furthering of 
the story or in its picture of the times? 

CuapTER VI: Name at least three different ways in which 
the author helps us realize that this is a story of times long 
ago. 

Does the account of why Richard became a Whig seem to 
you convincing? Defend your answer. 

CuapTeR VII: How does this strengthening of Grafton’s 
position affect the course of the story? 

Reread carefully the character sketch of Mr. Allen, and 
show how the traits there given are developed later. 

CuapTer VIII: What are the chief characteristics of Patty 
and Tom here brought out? Which of them reappear later in 
the story? 

What is the most amusing incident in this chapter? 

CuapTeR [X: What preparation has been made in the 
earlier chapters for the chief events here related? For what 
ea events in the story does the author here begin to prepare 
us! 

Frequently a character is represented as performing some 
little physical act which shows his mental state. Thus, 
Grafton yawns; Mr. Allen knits his brows. Point out a 
number of such acts, not necessarily in this chapter, and 
explain their significance. 

CHAPTER X: What is the significance of the title of this 
chapter? Is it an especially well chosen title? | 

*““He was two men, this rector of St. Anne’s.”” Where in the 
story is the truth of this statement most forcefully brought out? 

CuapTeR XI: Compare the opening paragraph of this 
chapter with that in each of several other chapters. Can you 
discover any devices used by the author for at once capturing 
our interest? 

What resemblances and what differences do you note 
between Richard and his grandfather? 


QUESTIONS AND NOTES 553 


So far as the plot of the story is concerned, what is the 
author’s purpose in sending Dorothy to London? 

CHAPTER XII: What is the chief thing told in this chapter 
to advance the progress of the story? 

What prediction does Patty here make? Does it come true? 

Cuaprer XIV: Why is this one of the most interesting and 
one of the most important chapters in the story? 

One of the dangers in thus telling a story in the first person 
is that the hero may sometimes sing his own praises too loudly. 
Frequently, therefore, the author employs the device of 
allowing some other character to tell the exploits which the 
hero conceals. Where is this device used in this chapter? 
Point out at least two instances of its use later in the story. 

CHAPTER XV: Notice how the fight between Grafton and 
Richard is waged back and forth with varying success. 

How do the preceding chapters prepare for this, and how, 
in turn, does this prepare for some subsequent chapters? 

Show how in this chapter, as in many others, we are seldom 
allowed to forget Dorothy, even when she is far from the 
scene. 

CuapTER XVI: The use of a mystery—of events which we 
do not understand at the time they are first told us—is one 
of the story-teller’s most effective devices. What such mystery 
is explained in this chapter? What later chapters again 
employ this device? What later chapter would the title of 
this chapter fit? 

CuapTerR XVII: Why did the author purposely make this 
one of the shortest chapters of the story? Why, aside from 
its rapid and stirring action, is it one of the best chapters? 

What hints given us earlier in the story are here made clear? 

CuapTeR XVIII: How does the change of scene affect our 
interest in the story? How does it affect the development of 
the plot? Name at least one other purpose served by this 
chapter. 

Why does the author choose to hurry over this part of the 
story? 

You may be interested in comparing Churchill’s pirate 


554 QUESTIONS AND NOTES 


crew with that in Stevenson’s Treasure Island or in Johnston’s 
To Have and to Hold. 

CuapTER XIX: The picture of the character of Paul Jones 
presented in this chapter is in the main quite true to history, 
as are also such incidents as his treatment of MacMuir. 

What are the chief traits of the Captain’s character revealed 
in this chapter? Notice carefully how these are emphasized 
and developed in the following chapters. What are the 
advantages and what are the dangers in thus introducing 
great historical characters? 

CHAPTER XX: Could this chapter and the following be 
omitted without seriously interrupting the course of the 
story! If so, what are the author’s different reasons for 
including them? 

Here, as wherever he goes, Richard makes friends. Give 
at least three reasons to account for this. 

CHAPTER XXI: What is the author’s purpose in thus 
centering our interest upon John Paul Jones through a large 
part of this chapter? Do you feel that John Paul is thoroughly 
justified in the attitude he here takes? 

Why is the ending of this chapter especially effective? 

CHAPTER XXII: Any encyclopedia will furnish much 
interesting information concerning that odd, amusing, some- 
times despicable Horace Walpole. How does he later further 
the progress of the story? For what other purpose is he here 
introduced? 

CuHapTer XXIII: The twentieth century American finds 
it difficult to realize how birth and rank were respected, yes, 
almost worshipped, during the period here portrayed. 

Summarize what you here learn concerning eighteenth 
century London life. 

CHAPTER XXIV: Does this chapter add anything to your 
knowledge of the-character of either John Paul or of Richard 
Carvel? Which better reveals a man’s character, a time of 
prosperity or one of adversity? Be careful how you answer 
this question. 

CHAPTER XXV: Point out other instances where Richard’s 


—a = 


QUESTIONS AND NOTES 555 


pride leads him into difficulties. Where, in this chapter, do his 
misfortunes come to a climax? 

What are some other examples in this story of the effective 
use of surprise? of contrast? 

CHAPTER XXVI: What preceding chapter was written 
largely in preparation for this 

Notice how in this story related by the hero, he has to be 
told of what has happened during his absence. 

Does the hero seem to you overpraised in this chapter? 

CHarTER XXVII: Mark how time after time the hero 
escapes one difficulty only to meet another. Who now be- | 
comes his chief enemy? What information are we here given 
concerning that enemy’s power which is developed at length 
in later chapters? 

Cuaprer XXVIII: What are the chief forces at conflict 
in this chapter? Point out some little acts of the hero here 
throwing light on his character. 

CHAPTER XXIX: Where have we been prepared for the 
introduction of Charles James Fox? Trace his influence on 
the progress of the story. 

Is this influence the author’s chief purpose in introducing 
him? What are the attractive qualities in his character? the 
unattractive? 

CHAPTER XXX: Study the author’s different methods of 
beginning his chapters. Do any begin with description? 
Which begin with interesting dialogue arousing our curiosity ! 
Which begin calmly and gradually rise in interest and in- 
tensity? In which is the beginning closely linked with the 
close of the preceding chapter? Which take up new threads, 
leaving something to be supplied by the reader? 

Does Dorothy seem to you as captivating and lovely as 
Richard represents her? Defend your answer. 

How long is it before John Paul reappears prominently 
in the story? | 

CHAPTER XXXI: This chapter does little to advance the 
course of the story. What other purposes does it serve? 

CHAPTER XXXII: Note carefully the dramatic manner in 


556 QUESTIONS AND NOTES 


which Chartersea is introduced and the subsequent use made | 
of this introductory incident. 

CHAPTER XXXIII: In what later chapter do we learn the 
reason for this attitude of Dorothy toward Richard? 

How are we here made to take sides strongly with him in his 
coming struggle with Chartersea? 

CuHarpTeR XXXIV: Would anything be lost by joining 
this and the succeeding chapter into one? 

CHAPTER XXXV: What incident in this chapter well il- 
lustrates Fox’s skill in meeting an adversary? What purpose 
does this incident serve in the development of the plot? 

Why not have the riding match take place at once? 

Into what two divisions does this chapter fall? Why does: 
the author give so much space to the second of these? 

CHAPTER XXXVI: This chapter is full of affairs both 
. great and small which are later either emphasized or developed. 
Point out these and discuss their use, including even the little 
matter of the purchase of the tea set. 

A keen critic gives as one of the ingredients in his recipe 
for interesting the readers of a story, “Make ’em wait.” 
Show how our author, both here and elsewhere, makes good 
use of this advice. 

CuapTeR XXXVII: Give at least three reasons why this 
is one of the most interesting chapters in the book. 

Why does not the author represent Chartersea as more 
seriously injured? 

CHAPTER XXXVIII: What hints do you discover in this 
chapter of another approaching encounter with Chartersea? 
Which of these did you fail to notice on your first reading of 
the book? 

Does this chapter throw any new light on Dorothy’s 
character? on Richard’s? 

CHAPTER XXXIX: “Fox was, in private life, a lover of 
pleasure, especially of the gaming table, thereby alienating 
from him the more decorous portion of mankind. Yet, in 
spite of this, the charm of his kindly nature gained him warm 
personal friends, and often disarmed the hostility of oppo- 


QUESTIONS AND NOTES 557 


nents. In public life he showed himself early as a ready and 
fluent speaker, always prepared with an answer on the spur of 
the moment. He was ever ready to throw himself enthusias- 
tically into all generous and noble causes, praising beyond 
measure and abusing beyond measure, and too deficient in 
tact and self-restraint to secure power on the rare occasions 
when he attained it.”? Gardiner’s Student History of England, 


. 790. 

Which of the characteristics given above do you find 
illustrated in this story? Which does Mr. Churchill fail to 
emphasize? What other characteristics of Fox does he in- 
troduce? 

CuapTER XL: Aside from its picture of London’s fashion- 
able amusement resort, the chief value of this chapter lies in 
its rousing of interest, its suspense, and its preparation for 
the succeeding chapter. What other chapters serve similar 
purposes? 

CuapTeR XLI: The climax of the Chartersea story. Why 
doesn’t the author represent Richard and Comyn as gaining 
a decisive victory, or as killing Chartersea and Lewis? 

Which do you despise more thoroughly, Chartersea or 
Mr. Manners? 

Notice carefully how much is crowded into this chapter. 

CuapTer XLII: Excepting Lord Comyn, which of Rich- 
ard’s friends do you admire the most? Defend your answer. 

Notice how, after scenes of intense excitement, here and 
elsewhere, the author lowers the tension of the story. 

CuaptTer XLIII: Which is given more space in this story, 
the narrative of events in America or the story of those 
abroad? 

What device is here used for telling us what has happened 
during Richard’s absence? 

What resemblances do you discover between the character 
of Lord Comyn and that of Captain Clapsaddle? 

CuapTerR XLIV: Show how the significance of the title is 
brought out by the course of the story. 

What coming events are here foreshadowed in the narrative? 


558 QUESTIONS AND NOTES 


CuapTerR XLV: After Richard’s return to Maryland, the | 
narrative is full of references to earlier events; it is retro- 
spective as well as prospective. Give at least two reasons for 
the author’s choosing to make it such. 

Where, in this chapter, do you most thoroughly hate 
Grafton Carvel? Where, in this book, does Richard last 
encounter him face to face? What is Grafton’s real purpose 
in sending Mr, Tucker to Richard? 

CuapTeER XLVI: What is the chief purpose served by this 
chapter? 

Which do you admire the more, Dorothy or Patty? Which 
do you like the better? 

CuapTeR XLVII: Point out at least one other instance 
where the progress of the story is furthered by someone’s 
overhearing a conversation. 

For what is the last scene of this chapter a preparation? 

What is Richard’s attitude toward Philip? Philip’s toward 
Richard? 

CuapTeR XLVIII: What is the meaning of the title? Why 
is it a well-chosen title? 

What use of foreshadowing do you here notice? 

CuHapTer XLIX: “October 19th, 1774. Anthony Stewart 
set fire to the Brig Peggy Stewart and burned her and her 
cargo of tea. He did this out of fear of his life at the hands 
of the outraged citizens because he had paid the tax on the 
tea.”’ Riley, Ye Ancient Capital of Maryland, p. 41. 

Which of the other characters understand Richard better 
than does Mr. Swain? 

CuapTer L: What division of Richard’s life ends in this 
chapter, and what begins? Show how his action in the two 
chief events here recorded is quite in keeping with his char- 
acter. } 

CHAPTER LI: How has John Paul changed since we saw 
him last? Which of his former characteristics are still strongly 
marked? Has Richard changed much since he parted with 
John Paul? If so, how? 

Who, supposedly, is this Daniel Clapsaddle Carvel? 


QUESTIONS AND NOTES 559 


Has the author any purpose beyond that of saving space 
in thus introducing the “ Brief Summary’’? 

Cyapter LII: Which do you regard as the most interesting 
chapter in the book? 

Select several instances in this chapter where the use of - 
small but significant details brings the picture vividly before us. 

What incidents in this chapter serve as preparation for the 
events in the following narrative? 

Where, in the battle, does John Paul seem most heroic 

Cuarter LIII: Why is the opening paragraph of this 
chapter especially effective? 

What are the two chief strands of interest now remaining 
in the narrative? 

Name the different services Lord Comyn has done Richard. 
What service has he still to perform? 

Cuapter LIV: Which of the story teller’s devices we have 
noted before do you here discover? 

What new meanness in Mr. Manners’s character is displayed 
in this chapter? | 

Compare and contrast Lord Comyn’s friendship for Richard 
with that of Charles Fox for him. 

Cuapter LV: Can you ascertain whether Captain John 
Paul really escaped from the Texel? 

On the events of what preceding chapter do some incidents 
of the present one shed light? 

CuaptTer LVI: What was Mr. Allen’s purpose in his visit? 
What changed his determination? What different purposes 
does the visit serve in furthering the story? What is your 
she feeling regarding him: contempt? pity? or a mixture of 
these? 

Notice how gradually character after character disappears 
from the current of the story. 

Cuapter LVII: With what preceding scene may we com- 
pare this home-coming? , 

Do you wish that Captain John Paul were introduced 
again? or that we were told more regarding any other char- 
acter in the story? 


560 ~ QUESTIONS AND NOTES 


Dorothy’s dress and pearls re-appear as the property of her | 
descendant, Virginia Carvel, in The Crisis. In the closing | 
chapter of that story Virginia comes as a bride to the old 
homestead at Annapolis. You will be much interested in 
reading of the Carvel home after its long lapse of years. 

AFTERWORD: In his novels Mr. Churchill has made re- 
peated use of the “Afterword.” What different purposes 
does it here serve? 





Cen hid: 4) Ss 














ebeie tes 



































ig FO 
i haelie 
nae J hepadedetimiederaliajereir einibede phiete 
papiedjelehedjeiimpey Hepiepelieiaiiaieda(iriele eijrhanened Pieieqenetaqe 5 
shah fee ipemiamg mel en pers) wl ahogeiiemetielielel ehenedetietierh chonelenenedere siaiieiededaseunliainbere 
mibedeielehanmienaiateteltats Hehwmeiereienrieiierelebeli sdenetet Ledeteleduiaienmrereie intr we 
funieiaiia patie bimintirsett p elimhvtioumiene’ oie lrayse mit ° 
haleneiedey ahelaneletiener stirs 
Me ienoetihetetesen:katoien enter: " 
ppwiedere elie itateynctep= (ia 


shahetebehedelare spedepade 


ippelpenepene seiels 
genieh ens ae 






ipa tie! nf ered well wth wit ' 
ky wa e|i yeti ihe eihetinite be foil wemibeyelimielelaiatayededetin 
ul i“ wile ligdimlieiiatrndinde simi etielie ties 



























ya weed a a hh 
se ieaedehene 4. hehe fefeqeleheriet et aiheue 
L h toga de) Hw 
eae yeye = 7 f bet rel be Lr 
nips f Pai nh ar 
jensen “7 
Lmiaqetegiente tel UNI i A od 
evepeneneies? tes 4 VER " i je thee om 
i joey . ere e * — 
ads fester SITY OF ILLINOIS-URBANA 
sim ieumeeerdeieneteien® ’ 4 
' eheieepeb eerie! jeneneli ed . chehekeieieneinee 
vaseljesiert fokebedepasepabanenernre’s ‘ 
q hepeqohaqedieiedegienet evened } 
jaheljepriene Hadi ee aie ate ew ‘ 
‘heya a | fig! 08: " } ° é heherte 5 
Ho ede tte } siaiet dviece: et at 
aipadie end eniaiiene npn pipet £ ei ° c A ® 
ie qe fievienep eed) e4 oi eiviivis eve 
ef vy 



































































































































































































































































































































































3 aaa 
0112 0026 eee 
el nie Heqere 
j eh a y haheie : 
nneimierieqe adalah anegenetien Jip ipepenepieiee dete — sifereiobaberel siehen ere’ 
imuniieieneheiaheveiteirenial edeeseied mieleiediater cljeboiied ehepanenent Sinker apiesetah es r e 
Hajeqeepederepensieienedeyeiiene drowntin ie ree neriied eben wHeielbecing Lena meng egeriened saspevensienetene , 
Hh effin fetiee Gee foeppetbeih em ety UT bedded relia hel el hhes mgpeile Ledepnnegeliereties whaheferenrne ’ } 
aijeprbeielheneperstelieer 4 f Vusieiolebeiapepedndrte i e " 
eieiniiedeiingeieieianedenetele! egenpysrenediwbeserederatries eunted ehapndadepagnet erne ene 
iebaiieleie oleh ehetiet hellebieialiphrelienededevenmiedtint® Cedeleiatiopeveter siele me 
ete eee dedenelslrt® sisishaheperetesets prielep ees pohedeieinaeneeeenietese aiieheierelene . 
eqistivtieiene heli eripietes ciivheieharedeleieiehe tigeacliesalietnieteiecnienetelet aie ‘ 
Hote he qmipaneedediote tei inheestepate pehepecadng oenelinienepe et shehadetetepedsuadeds terete? ' 
niinnationehebebetiniebellc ht is opened siehehaliodeiebeaeinnenecovedaner” webhrbededetreepene ies 4 
VM pahiraret padre bet Unjeroinierrt eReten De legeaeet ere MOR TED trace err eee hehe 
nd mie eheprbieienekeie Het efeiebeie mies il falimgeiedegeiedeheqenese’ dovateedehenecehrdepene * “ 
Kym i hepe te heli shefishafiefedaneneieteienots! chegetedeienedege yetene ie { 
‘ petprie ier bernie teded ote eres erene isieheleepenereherere seus Hef e 
wefewel ehetietetedeieget petiole hatieg ef ofehepedapenerie erst eieiins fete ja neeaiegeaener® . “o 
che hehehrinied wledelininhehelrdepeliaharmyefeiie lst viehebelaiedadnperer earn eteret ons! eis ei : 
aioli ede heheeber jmpedetieieyr che imbeketehediaiods feceterener i J te 
(he fredie deine tense sied & edie adie ie hel Qrieting state ee 
ee fieve adele se (hp ian We fiend dyin dd Ob Haste de pet 
hele Helreiehetettene i oti mite) w ihe ehadioiarnrmpedeie ledeioteas! rhebe Aoptic banegenenes . 
(we athe pinta dr n(lene nel whe ler penererenele edi rter Pipe the timid (i eege @ Khe Hh yt Lejed he hee sg hafietindekets ieked se elatietatie get 4 
jeheliehened yetink eet eHolegeleiepeide prdehedieyefioneiiede hepn bn! whriie Hevaliotenedehegened the fielieiedeartodetione ae oiuy etimtte 
Agenettey ejeiohotetiedintetiey whelelieiehepe dehedapette jebveliodeiekayate hela ener pita hep etieiiads Ee bey Esty ‘ a: foye f 
ape wpettimpepwleheiet muetiecet ine reqetio? chejedniieinbahedanedeteheiennt wie cepenrted py net 
Hediniedintishmie inlet elheiepoliaheleiefienne rrenetedepeienedairimorreiacrnanebst aj pele 
eliepeimnedet elietiene fener Kenemehmnennimee( eiat aii a cjciaiedapenmieneoseerebeney et pe ahh ie 
welhetivelia het infehetedeenere edie fin jafehoharafieiebrielebete ping ® { we 
6 Heth eye heed ter lh eeigun tt ee! @ beilih ca the vt sofia edie Hpeed caee : 
, fer bie ayers} de piedeiiane Yue efhehphaededaapediote fear ec weeny wy mtedied he he 
dfn Henn ne bie haindjedieh ebeliniieireteqeielietts geheiedeirhetadaiebepepenede)* et nehete 
pegveneletier heveteleneiedt i him ode Hietiwe die ihe bend eppe heqieter ai Hebms he Hepedopeheliedetanted pliekpilebeanest © ' 
wp ae eveds jm neon Oe gary ite siete porederohmiepetedals bipive thw dhe edie que ee(pet ped vimlieimhededed ehenene ter ha percere leew gepabel vi 
peqedieqetelediepenienet « athe lietiadedietaiplinfebedaiimielry) Lejie pene egepiedeiis hedped mints Ver © eHenelenepebeneatinl abefinnar tive Perehedetaielefenetene i *f 
tewelehetehebonetier wiehedenahenedenrd areiertiePe he fiedeneliekmiiehegeie delediehedeiedetehetienetel ghahaleinnededmiereietoner giekabe ire hades} 4 b 
mivehoirlieteheteietial wiseliiehedeietiel jabehahelepatahedrliehedeteheli= teh chetheheHermtiehadeenerieneieneleneha repre caaneiede ut deeds 
ehedrbedeinieiatrisfeletaienoy rte le ie NedetizHeheretnre' siedioge te bel aibetiel wire joheli tl hear peres 
fete bet |p pe be ett weet je hehe Hadekaietepedenenetien mieten aiohebehetemedaspitel et oie ® ef ‘ 
dene setoiede sgn He He tye dye feb bw disholeretpanndeumienetedieies ohh he epei ree! a 
chee dedietenerinieteledieioteietinieie be fueds cisiebeiebohoiebernrelee ° 
sie letetelehevoin mene tebe " 4 absiwleye ied / 
nhotiederin (eta iie he yepeiietiet © 4} i fy ail ei whe hnyeienie oe he « 
ve titi Ae ipecenane iestt h ed pieiepeds sehehogen 
hele te iepenemateher yeyetickai eet f aiadeteder? * 
aatfe i oh anel simhege he Genet cheeks inte Leasvecapenenare 5 
pede leieteneishersteie tar ehetehed ate trie leiete eiimhederedepeltrietntet ape fered eneve ‘ ‘ 
mapenievelie nents) pene tiawetrelsteie fogvaeibevehegenetede eves naenereneepefecnred ehedepe ned 
ee nad whe ded ahegene t 6h esate ievelistadivitedet sheieeebeiermeeteiayshennor sis P . 
eHebe ie deedeturtione pe hefjehew sella edngetinie qe ties “ siswehejetetiasad egepeé { r 
pehelecel age we hokey odie petiede (ee agra he! Ger etev ‘ ’ 
* hetepe tes sodehahonetiapriedefaiesene cereal ete! f gonehat rte : 
ehehepehehesehone Heimheienehemedede iedefer pinnae teretopenels ¢ 
pane Hopepanodeqeled sieve here he hs Fray eigen Gh quer eed ed pe tp eee Bebet ttt eWerfimiinde frat mite ib pomnpobotetetianed Pgm 
(re fpejouete liad dehehehileiteibedinfedatiageiieljetis halal) 4 el ‘ pimedefenerienawed ey be eke ebr ye seh ‘ w 
eijebehwiteh ‘detiehehe pede} abet ene letiefete tie { eachabehenehededeiel et steve te aieot 4 
y felcrepeber a frede haps mpedia te fea Lepebe ete delegation enet 
Hegeqe peneneie tie 4 elehage dena (aietete ebege tenn’ tt “we 
sijnijelebeteunreheheheienenn! epplefede eheherel heals Gaps ie Hopedeht F2Fe eae ' 
Hepedeielienehetiepeprdedaleurtte empetetelieite hed rie lee free cieiadeheqedaseseneder tiers of ’ " 
Hedetet Japeiovehenedelivte iavetetelers eipedetede tetene! t esepes eqeis ef 
Aedienef a # Hepesodipr cceaie tre ive HEHepexensweses . 
(ahelinfeievehelin he penehe efaiantededegareer’ vie seoainle abate eke bubs heb 
papeevelie ‘J fedotintesistiedene Kojededehereiedenonerodr hats’ ehepetetotey ’ 
evivihetie fetes whe a hetetintle é eee 
he wehehe be ‘ 4 dvas tebe n sheave , 
0  oheteadea ba se feet 4et i 
eth ieie y Keke heneredatefehenerere 
pafadahedebapereiabopedefeosin assy! henete teed 
LeheleneKedie datetiotteyeiaiete ciheltedeiabetiahetielt 
Hefinfietintetett hebepeietoner sheyehe cheGefevedeneiehed ia de} ebebicnetioiete . ’ 
ehopebenenetie tare siekehiedeiotpinieleheted cmiypiinitets f fe hedeieiie de iirlte Geetmdele Lelinheliodetstindedetete! : 
Heleiteloiet= oie fehetensibe he tesa din neetie Hegiege ie Heel eheteqenedeiene iets shefahebeli« inpehepeheredenet vegepe betes Fe ie! * afedatisdediat 
oe He pene here yatie: che ieiienaqedenetieWeptetetinietielel eliettenefledeieleindelicipepeds ret seme weneheretiel oleiietjowoiedabeieqer ogee PEHHHON peF ‘ 
Helivaiie Keiefiesteiiciiet atin in (mints fe eiedeiehedetoiefelenedanotapeiantiaiofiel epotehatnbeberepenefenelelel sede set ‘ ‘ 
re etre (rehiebe iim fievieitetjer! bedi Z fehegeboegrleletedie bintietiehedel Hepehriielehels > jo potiedie hwretiobere hie PT he heb 
deta otshenee § ihe He ite Hopoheiadavehetetialejeieysiepebelie Hnheiie Brae tre iat yy rb , 
\ cimiielieiadodetetienepepennnellehe eiedepehefintetiahedetelepednhedoreyic i ‘ Meuene 
Relea jekeheneheratetedielmiotie velielione he het " ; 
etlene et Hehe ledotiohobeieliel mietetin( ve hiu herded? phe ; P 
Wehienehenedeled Hehe belieleiedaielievetetelieiels Hafhadeitmiinieltode ters t@hebelte jales 
son petite (bee agen | Heihehegeiobelintsijenensbiniedirin ielabetiy a heleneleneteprtiodobalin ie Kohat epelerat 
ele rieheledelienelanehe hee ieneloiiebesinel® KeiedirHehedehaliedepe dete jedrpadeteinbs hate tet He ' 
ef He Aesive Gesurliog ned edpedbedtefiane ethettetie phot he ltepelialeduinhet: Hetepeieierepe lt f 
Heioilehahehepeleters ficllehehereneiehersijanetenele eld he Ht ietiene der ednneti® ialiahebenetedanele il? f 
Hotnieheiedebatebeiedwinie { Wehehehenmpeinnonneshepebrepediers intranet jie hetvepeletenenerebrhen Piehateheleor te | pevedel ‘ 
elened ehieheiie Rete je letely wh belehel fotighehelepiebel) ofr jeri e fre we pe tt of peepee epogiel edfoy Kegepiingindetin’ leg fe 
Aebetelehereisiviatele ts isl eohe tain pet all mt Werte ties fie pitoin se der haved wie fe elie judetteioria ret? whit { 
henenetete cyoveteholintedeiateleiolele emia bol edie mind mint wapage nonin ie seiehehenedeiegepereraiel Kelelehedeveseiahaperarttetely! Helps 
pike vebesodeseteneiol hehetetehetoievsbedebetopedebeneliene ye ie rn Hedevedediededeiiapedelledolimie tess! © Hefiedetnbabaved ! 
Heme hatebiedieietetetinartene few {oe ihe fhe ie ed! TT ee obet pede ih 
ee bel et eliohet pije eve ie te te see pede the hee @ het 
y dcinliehebabebedeod ends heiee tt bf @fiel § 
Pau anaehegedenenetet fet 4 





